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قراءة كتاب The Violet Book
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 5
The wild
Winds clash and clang, and broken boughs are piled
At feet of writhing trees. The violets raise
Their heads without affright, without amaze,
And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child.
—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
Violet is for faithfulness,
Which in me shall abide.
—ANONYMOUS.
The violet varies from the lily as far
As oak from elm.
—ALFRED TENNYSON.
Some wear the lily’s stainless white
And some the rose of passion,
And some the violet’s heavenly blue,
But each in its own fashion.
—HENRY VAN DYKE.
No tree unfolds its timid bud,
Chill pours the hillside’s chilling flood,
The tuneless forest all is dumb—
Whence then, fair violet, didst thou come?
—GOODRICH.
All flowers died when Eve left Paradise,
And all the world was flowerless for a while,
Until a little child was laid in earth;
Then from its grave grew violets for its eyes,
And from its lips rose-petals for its smile.
—MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN.
When the rain beats and March winds blow,
We should be glad if we could know
How, not so very far away,
There shineth a serener day
Where birds are blithe, and happy children pass
To gather violets among the grass.
—EMILY S. OAKEY.
Like a violet, like a lark,
Like the dawn that kills the dark,
Like a dew-drop, trembling, clinging,
Is the poet’s first sweet singing.
—RICHARD WATSON GILDER.
Earth folds dark blankets round the violet blue.
—AUSTIN DOBSON.
O violets, who never fret, nor say, “I won’t!” “I will!”
Who only live to do your best His wishes to fulfil,
Teach us your sweet obedience.
—CELIA THAXTER.
When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the bluebird’s warble know,
The yellow violet’s modest bell
Peeps from the last year’s leaves below.
—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
I hold thy violets against my face
And deeply breathe the haunting purple scent
That fills my weary heart with sweet content
And lays upon my soul a chrismal grace;
The air around me for a little space
Is heavy with the fragrance they have lent,
And every passing wind that heavenward went
Has held thy blossoms in a close embrace.
—MYRTLE REED.
’Twas when the spring was coming, when the snow
Had melted, and fresh winds began to blow,
And girls were selling violets in the town.
—ROBERT BUCHANAN.
My house is small and low;
But with pictures such as these,—
Of the sunset, and the row
Of illuminated trees,
And the heifer as she drinks
From the field of meadowed ground,
With the violets and the pinks
For a border all around,—
Let me never, foolish, pray
For a vision wider spread,
But, contented, only say,
Give me, Lord, my daily bread.
—ALICE CARY.
How can our fancies help but go
Out from this realm of mist and rain,
Out from this realm of sleet and snow,
When the first southern violets blow?
—THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
But one short week ago the trees were bare,
And winds were keen, and violets pinched with frost;
Today the spring is in