TO VIOLETS

Welcome, maids of honor, You do bring In the Spring, And wait upon her.

She has virgins many, Fresh and fair; Yet you are More sweet than any.

You're the maiden posies, And, so graced, To be placed 'Fore damask roses.

Yet, though thus respected, By and by Ye do lie, Poor girls, neglected.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

THE VIOLET

O faint, delicious, spring-time violet!

Thine odor, like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let A thought of sorrow free.

The breath of distant fields upon my brow Blows through that open door The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low, And sadder than of yore.

It comes afar, from that beloved place, And that beloved hour, When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, Like grapes above a bower.

A spring goes singing through its reedy gra.s.s; The lark sings o'er my head, Drowned in the sky--O, pa.s.s, ye visions, pa.s.s!

I would that I were dead!--

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door, From which I ever flee?

O vanished Joy! O Love, that art no more, Let my vexed spirit be!

O violet! thy odor through my brain Hath searched, and stung to grief This sunny day, as if a curse did stain Thy velvet leaf.

William Wetmore Story [1819-1895]

TO A WOOD-VIOLET

In this secluded shrine, O miracle of grace, No mortal eye but mine Hath looked upon thy face.

No shadow but mine own Hath screened thee from the sight Of Heaven, whose love alone Hath led me to thy light.

Whereof--as shade to shade Is wedded in the sun-- A moment's glance hath made Our souls forever one.

John Banister Tabb [1845-1909]

THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE

The violet in the wood, that's sweet to-day, Is longer sweet than roses of red June; Set me sweet violets along my way, And bid the red rose flower, but not too soon.

Ah violet, ah rose, why not the two?

Why bloom not all fair flowers the whole year through?

Why not the two, young violet, ripe rose?

Why dies one sweetness when another blows?

Augusta Webster [1837-1894]

TO A WIND-FLOWER

Teach me the secret of thy loveliness, That, being made wise, I may aspire to be As beautiful in thought, and so express Immortal truths to earth's mortality; Though to my soul ability be less Than 'tis to thee, O sweet anemone.

Teach me the secret of thy innocence, That in simplicity I may grow wise, Asking from Art no other recompense Than the approval of her own just eyes; So may I rise to some fair eminence, Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies.

Teach me these things, through whose high knowledge, I,-- When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins, And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie In that vast house, common to serfs and thanes,-- I shall not die, I shall not utterly die, For beauty born of beauty--that remains.

Madison Cawein [1865-1914]

TO BLOSSOMS

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.

What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night?

'Twas pity Nature brought you forth Merely to show your worth And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride Like you awhile, they glide Into the grave.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

"TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER"

'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.