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Violet Poems

Table of Contents

  1. Violets by Ruby Archer
  2. The Yellow Violet by William Cullen Bryant
  3. The Violet by Jones Very
  4. To a Wood-Violet by John B. Tabb
  5. Almost! by Emily Dickinson
  6. The Violets by Hannah Flagg Gould
  7. The Tax-Gatherer by John B. Tabb
  8. The Wild Violet by John B. Tabb
  9. The Violet by Jones Very
  10. Almost! by Emily Dickinson
  11. A Belated Violet by Oliver Herford
  12. The Faded Violet by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
  13. One April Morn by John B. Tabb
  14. Calling the Violet by Lucy Larcom

  1. Violets

    by Ruby Archer

    Violets, I hold you
    Sweet within my hand.
    Whisper what he told you
    In the sunset land.

    Violets, my spirit
    Feels what you intend.
    In my soul I hear it:
    "Think upon thy friend."

  2. The Yellow Violet

    by William Cullen Bryant

    When beechen buds begin to swell,
    And woods the blue-bird's warble know
    The yellow violet's modest bell
    Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

    Ere russet fields their green resume,
    Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
    To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
    Alone is in the virgin air.

    Of all her train, the hands of Spring
    First plant thee in the watery mould,
    And I have seen thee blossoming
    Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

    Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
    Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,
    Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
    And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

    Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
    And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
    Unapt the passing view to meet,
    When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

    Oft, in the sunless April day,
    Thy early smile has stayed my walk.
    But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,
    I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

    So they, who climb to wealth, forget
    The friends in darker fortunes tried.
    I copied them—but I regret
    That I should ape the ways of pride.

    And when again the genial hour
    Awakes the painted tribes of light
    I'll not o'erlook the modest flower
    That made the woods of April bright.

  3. To a Wood-Violet

    by John B. Tabb

    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.

  4. The Violets

    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    Mary thy violets are bright
    As when, a year ago, I traced
    Thy name upon the leaf of white,
    And in its fold thy gift was placed.

    Whene'er these cherished flowers I view,
    In forth so fair, with living green
    And purple, still so rich and true;
    It seems as Mary's self were seen.

    I mark again the smile that played
    Upon thy lip, when they were thine;
    And hear thy gentle words, that made
    The little fragrant beauties mine.

    How sweet it is to have a flower
    Impressed with thoughts of one that's dear;
    To make the past a present hour,
    And hold the absent ever near!

    A simple leaf may brush a tear,
    Or chase a cloud of care away—
    May touch, with pleasant sounds, the ear,
    Illumine night, and brighten day.

    'T will work a charm about the heart,
    And fill with balm its deep regrets.
    And such has been the tender part
    Performed by thy sweet Violets!

  5. The Tax-Gatherer

    by John B. Tabb

    "And pray, who are you?"
    Said the violet blue
    To the Bee, with surprise
    At his wonderful size,
    In her eye-glass of dew.

    "I, madam," quoth he,
    "Am a publican Bee,
    Collecting the tax
    On honey and wax.
    Have you nothing for me?"

  6. The Wild Violet

    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    Violet, violet, sparkling with dew,
    Down in the meadow-land wild where you grew,
    How did you come by the beautiful blue
    With which your soft petals unfold?
    And how do you hold up your tender, young head
    When rude, sweeping winds rush along o'er your bed,
    And dark, gloomy clouds ranging over you shed
    Their waters so heavy and cold?

    No one has nursed you, or watched you an hour,
    Or found you a place in the garden or bower;
    And they cannot yield me so lovely a flower,
    As here I have found at my feet!
    Speak, my sweet violet! answer and tell
    How you have grown up and flourished so well,
    And look so contented where lowly you dwell,
    And we thus by accident meet!

    'The same careful hand,' the Violet said,
    'That holds up the firmament, holds up my head!
    And He, who with azure the skies overspread,
    Has painted the violet blue.
    He sprinkles the stars out above me by night,
    And sends down the sunbeams at morning with light
    To make my new coronet sparkling and bright,
    When formed of a drop of his dew!

    'I've nought to fear from the black, heavy cloud,
    Or the breath of the tempest that comes strong and loud!
    Where, born in the lowland, and far from the crowd,
    I know, and I live but for ONE.
    He soon forms a mantle about me to cast,
    Of long, silken grass, till the rain and the blast.
    And all that seemed threatening have harmlessly passed,
    As the clouds scud before the warm sun!'

  7. The Violet

    by Jones Very

    Thou tellest truths unspoken yet by man
    By this thy lonely home and modest look;
    For he has not the eyes such truths to scan,
    Nor learns to read from such a lowly book;
    With him it is not life firm-fixed to grow
    Beneath the outspreading oaks and rising pines,
    Content this humble lot of thine to know,
    The nearest neighbor of the creeping vines;
    Without fixed root he cannot trust like thee
    The rain will know the appointed hour to fall,
    But fears lest sun or shower may hurtful be,
    And would delay or speed them with his call;
    Nor trust like thee when wintry winds blow cold,
    Whose shrinking form the withered leaves enfold.

  8. Almost!

    by Emily Dickinson

    Within my reach!
    I could have touched!
    I might have chanced that way!
    Soft sauntered through the village,
    Sauntered as soft away!
    So unsuspected violets
    Within the fields lie low,
    Too late for striving fingers
    That passed, an hour ago.

  9. A Belated Violet

    by Oliver Herford

    Very dark the autumn sky,
    Dark the clouds that hurried by;
    Very rough the autumn breeze
    Shouting rudely to the trees.

    Listening, frightened, pale, and cold,
    Through the withered leaves and mould
    Peered a violet all in dread—
    “Where, oh, where is spring?” she said.

    Sighed the trees, “Poor little thing!
    She may call in vain for spring.”
    And the grasses whispered low,
    “We must never let her know.”

    “What ’s this whispering?” roared the breeze;
    “Hush! a violet,” sobbed the trees,
    “Thinks it ’s spring,—poor child, we fear
    She will die if she should hear!”

    Softly stole the wind away,
    Tenderly he murmured, “Stay!”
    To a late thrush on the wing,
    “Stay with her one day and sing!”

    Sang the thrush so sweet and clear
    That the sun came out to hear,
    And, in answer to her song,
    Beamed on violet all day long;

    And the last leaves here and there
    Fluttered with a spring-like air.
    Then the violet raised her head,—
    “Spring has come at last!” she said.

    Happy dreams had violet
    All that night—but happier yet,
    When the dawn came dark with snow,
    Violet never woke to know.

  10. The Faded Violet

    by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

    What thought is folded in thy leaves!
    What tender thought, what speechless pain!
    I hold thy faded lips to mine,
    Thou darling of the April rain!

    I hold thy faded lips to mine,
    Though scent and azure tint are fled—
    O dry, mute lips! ye are the type
    Of something in me cold and dead:

    Of something wilted like thy leaves;
    Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim;
    Yet, for the love of those white hands
    That found thee by a river's brim—

    That found thee when thy dewy mouth
    Was purpled as with stains of wine—
    For love of her who love forgot,
    I hold thy faded lips to mine.

    That thou shouldst live when I am dead,
    When hate is dead, for me, and wrong,
    For this, I use my subtlest art,
    For this, I fold thee in my song.

  11. One April Morn

    by John B. Tabb

    Twin violets amid the dew
    Unfolded soft their petals blue
    To find the winter's dream come true,
    One April morn.

    Two warmer, softer, violet eyes,
    Beneath the selfsame April skies,
    Fulfilled a dream of paradise,
    One April morn.

    Dawn-blossoms of a changeful day,
    Ye would not till the twilight stay,
    But, ere the noontide, sped away,
    One April morn.

  12. One April Morn

    by John B. Tabb

    Twin violets amid the dew
    Unfolded soft their petals blue
    To find the winter's dream come true,
    One April morn.

    Two warmer, softer, violet eyes,
    Beneath the selfsame April skies,
    Fulfilled a dream of paradise,
    One April morn.

    Dawn-blossoms of a changeful day,
    Ye would not till the twilight stay,
    But, ere the noontide, sped away,
    One April morn.

  13. The Violet

    by Jane Taylor

     Full Text

    Down in a green and shady bed
    A modest violet grew;
    Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
    As if to hide from view.

    And yet it was a lovely flower,
    No colours bright and fair;
    It might have graced a rosy bower,
    Instead of hiding there.

    Yet there it was content to bloom,
    In modest tints arrayed;
    And there diffused its sweet perfume,
    Within the silent shade.

    Then let me to the valley go,
    This pretty flower to see;
    That I may also learn to grow
    In sweet humility.

  14. Calling the Violet

    by Lucy Larcom

    Dear Little Violet,
    Don't be afraid!
    Lift your blue eyes
    From the rock's mossy shade!
    All the birds call for you
    Out of the sky;
    May is here, waiting,
    And here, too, am I.

    Come, pretty Violet,
    Winter's away:
    Come, for without you
    May isn't May.
    Down through the sunshine
    Wings flutter and fly;—
    Quick, little Violet,
    Open your eye!

    Hear the rain whisper,
    "Dear Violet, come!"
    How can you stay
    In your underground home?
    Up in the pine-boughs
    For you the winds sigh.
    Homesick to see you,
    Are we—May and I.