THE VIOLET BOOK
But who hath breathed the scent of violets,
And not that moment been a lover glad?
--ARLO BATES.
[Illustration:
_Go, modest little violets, and lie upon her breast;
Your eyes will tell her something--perhaps she’ll guess the rest!_]
THE VIOLET BOOK
Arranged by
WILLIS BOYD ALLEN
“Such a starved bank of moss,
Till, that May morn,
Blue ran the flash across:
Violets were born.”
_Browning_
PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1909, by
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
Published September, 1909
All rights reserved
Printed in U. S. A.
TO HER
For whom this little company of her sisters was first gathered.
PREFACE
Many of the selections in this volume are waifs and strays, found in
obscure periodicals and newspapers, or in long-forgotten books on the
dusty shelves of libraries. Some of them have been gathered from
copyrighted works, and for the use of these the compiler owes and
renders his best thanks.
Special acknowledgments are due to the following publishers and
copyright holders:
The Houghton, Mifflin Company, for selections from the poems of John
Greenleaf Whittier, Edith M. Thomas, Celia Thaxter, Oliver Wendell
Holmes, Richard Watson Gilder, John Hay, Lucy Larcom, George E.
Woodbury, Alice and Phœbe Cary, Ralph Waldo Emerson, James Russell
Lowell, Bayard Taylor, Harriet Prescott Spofford, Mrs. A. D. T.
Whitney, and Edmund Clarence Stedman; Messrs. Little, Brown and
Company, for lines by Louise Chandler Moulton and Helen Hunt Jackson;
Messrs. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, for selections from the works of Dora
Read Goodale and Myrtle Reed; Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons, for
extracts from the writings of Henry Van Dyke, Mary Mapes Dodge, Oliver
Herford, and Frances Hodgson Burnett; and Messrs. Lothrop, Lee and
Shepard, for permission to quote from Clinton Scollard’s work.
A STUDY IN VIOLET
Next to the rose, whose divine right to monarchy cannot be questioned,
the violet is the poet’s flower. No other is mentioned so frequently,
or with such affection.
It is impossible to say when this familiar flower first blossomed in
literature. The “Odyssey” would not be complete without it, nor would
the “Eclogues” of the Roman singer, Virgil. Ovid was fond of
horticulture, and the violet was not forgotten when the bard was
inditing his smooth-flowing hexameters. Pliny and Cicero, too, were
violet-lovers. In the Bible there is no mention of the flower; but in
Chrysostom’s “First Homily” occurs perhaps the first appearance of our
little friend in Christian literature.
Chaucer’s affection for “floures” is well known. Of the many
Shakspearean quotations in this field, probably the most familiar
comprises the exquisite lines:
“Violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes
Or Cytherea’s breath.”
Passing to the more recent literary period, the individual taste of
the poet becomes noticeable. Strange to relate, Wordsworth could have
cared little for the shy blossom. Although he does say,
“Long as there are violets
They will have their place in story,”
he leaves it to others to tell the story,--referring to the violet
only three or four times in all his voluminous writings. His
counterpart in this respect, among American poets, is Longfellow, in
whose musical numbers, singularly enough, the violet has almost no
place at all. Nor was the flower a favorite with Tennyson, though each
of his rare references to it is a gem; as this,--
“The meadow your walks have left so sweet
That wherever a March wind sighs,
He sets the jewel-prints of his feet
In violets blue as your eyes.”
American writers have, on the whole, given the violet a more prominent
place than have their English brethren of the lyre. Bryant’s pages,
for instance, are fragrant with its perfume, and he has, in special,
immortalized the yellow variety in more than one finely turned stanza.
* * * * *
If most of the world’s great bards have been reluctant to give Lady
Violet her due, not so the numerous rank and file of “minor poets.”
The verse of Alice Cary, Lucy Larcom, Grace Greenwood, Elizabeth
Akers, Adelaide Proctor and dozens of others is a garden of
wild-flowers, with the violet leading the dance. Some of the prettiest
conceits occur in the writings of authors so obscure that their names
are unfamiliar to most readers. For instance, one must look far for a
volume of poetry bearing the name of Ethel M. Kelley; yet these fine
lines are attributed to her:
“In her hair the sunbeams nest,
And in her eyes the violets blow,
While in the summer of her breast
The songbird thoughts flit to and fro.”
The compiler of this book has spent many pleasant hours in culling his
violets from the immense field of English and American poetry.
Another volume of equal size could readily be made up from extracts
containing references to the flower, to say nothing of German, French,
Spanish, Italian, and Scandinavian poetry, which has not been
considered in his quest.
WILLIS BOYD ALLEN
CHAPTER ONE
The silent, soft and humble heart
In the violet’s hidden sweetness breathes.
--JAMES G. PERCIVAL.
CHAPTER ONE
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging;
Between the gusts that come and go
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
Or can it be the breeze is bringing
The breath of violets?--Ah, no!
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging.
It is my lady’s voice that’s stringing
Its beads of gold to song; and so
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
The violets I see upspringing
Are in my lady’s eyes, I trow;
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging.
-- JOHN PAYNE.
A chaplet on her head she wore
(Heigho, the chaplet!);
Of sweet violets therein was store--
She’s sweeter than the violet.
--EDMUND SPENSER.
Tell me, this sweet morn,
Tell me all you know,--
Tell me, was I born?
Tell me, did I grow?
Fell I from the blue
Like a drop of rain,
Then, as violets do,
Blossomed up again?
--ROBERT BUCHANAN.
Misty grew the violets of her eyes.
--HELEN B. BOSTWICK.
The violet loves the sunny bank,
The cowslip loves the lea,
The scarlet creeper loves the elm;
But I love--thee.
--BAYARD TAYLOR.
Your name pronounced brings to my heart
A feeling like the violet’s breath.
--COVENTRY PATMORE.
Out from the leaves of my “Lucille”
Falls a faded violet.
Sweet and faint as its fragrance steal
Out from the leaves of my “Lucille”
Tender memories, and I feel
A sense of longing and regret.
Out from the leaves of my “Lucille”
Falls a faded violet.
--WALTER LEARNED.
Be other brows by pleasure’s wreath
Or glory’s coronal oppressed,
To me the humblest flower seems best,
Some sweet wild bloom with dews still wet.
So, Love, but kiss a violet--
O, Love, but kiss a violet--
And fling it to my breast!
--GRACE GREENWOOD.
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.
--EMILY DICKINSON.
The silent, soft and humble heart
In the violet’s hidden sweetness breathes.
--JAMES G. PERCIVAL.
Perchance the violets o’er my dust
Will half betray their buried trust,
And say, their blue eyes full of dew,
“She loved you better than you knew.”
--ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
Nature does not recognize
This strife that rends the earth and skies;
No war-dreams vex the winter sleep of clover-heads and daisy-eyes:
When blood her grassy altar wets,
She sends the pitying violets
To heal the outrage with their bloom and cover it with soft
regrets.
--ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs,
Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers
Passed o’er thy head; many light hearts and wings,
Which now are dead, lodged in thy living bowers.
And still a new succession sings and flies;
Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot
Towards the old and still enduring skies;
While the low violet thrives at their root.
--HENRY VAUGHAN.
Blue eyes
Whose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies.
--THOMAS MOORE.
Love comes and goes as the free wind blows,
That asks not, as it passes,
If it touches the head of the roses red
Or the violets down in the grasses.
--HOSEA G. BLAKE.
Little maid, a violet
Is knocking at your door,
Eagerly its message sweet
Repeating o’er and o’er:
“Some one sent me with his love,--
Take me, I implore!”
--ANONYMOUS.
Where fall the tears of love the rose appears,
And where the ground is bright with friendship’s tears,
Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue,
Spring, glittering with the cheerful drops like dew.
--WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
We shall be, as we are,
(Still breathes the secret strain)
Within our Father’s loving care
When violets come again.
--EMILY S. OAKEY.
Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white,
On south-sloping brooksides should smile in the light,
O’er the cold winter beds of their late-waking roots
The frosty flake eddies, the ice crystal shoots.
--JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
When Roman fields are red with cyclamen,
And in the palace gardens you may find,
Under great leaves and sheltering briony-bind,
Clusters of cream-white violets, O then
The ruined city of immortal men
Must smile, a little to her fate resigned.
--EDMUND W. GOSSE.
Beside me, where I rest,
Thy loving hands will set
The flowers that please me best,
Moss-rose and violet.
--WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Once in a dream I saw the flowers
That bud and bloom in Paradise;
More fair they are than waking eyes
Have seen in all this world of ours.
And faint the perfume-bearing rose,
And faint the lily on its stem,
And faint the perfect violet,
Compared with them.
--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
I do not know
The subtle secret of the snow,
That hides away the violets
Till April teaches them to blow.
Enough for me
Their tender loveliness to see,
Assured that little things and large
Fulfil God’s purpose equally.
--MARY BRADLEY.
Violet, sweet violet!
Thine eyes are full of tears;
Are they wet,
Even yet,
With the thoughts of other years?
Or with gladness are they full,
For the night so beautiful,
And longing for those far-off spheres?
Violet, dear violet,
Thy blue eyes are only wet
With joy and love of Him who sent thee,
And for the fulfilling sense
Of that glad obedience
Which made thee all that Nature meant thee.
--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
CHAPTER TWO
Violets, shy violets,
How many hearts with thee compare!
--ANONYMOUS.
CHAPTER TWO
Under a mantle of frost-work and snow,
Close by the arc of the fairy-queen’s ring,
Sleeping in delicate grottoes of ice,
Clusters of violets dream of the spring.
--D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.
That strain again! It had a dying fall:
Oh! it came o’er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets
Stealing and giving odor.
--WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
Slow rose the silken-fringèd lids, and eyes
Like violets wet with dew drank in the light.
--GRACE GREENWOOD.
The careful little violet,
She makes me think of you,
Holding her leafy petticoats
From out the morning dew.
--ALICE CARY.
The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly
As in the air of her native East.
--WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
When the earliest violets ope
On the sunniest southern slope,
When the air is sweet and keen
Ere the full-blown flower is seen,
When that blithe, forerunning air
Breathes more hope than thou canst bear,
Thou, oh buried, broken heart,
Into quivering life shalt start.
--EDITH M. THOMAS.
The wind-flowers and the violets were still too sound asleep,
Under the snow’s warm blanket, close folded, soft and deep.
--CELIA THAXTER.
Beautiful maid, discreet,
Where is the mate that is meet,
Meet for thee--strive as he could--
Yet will I kneel at thy feet,
Fearing another one should,
Violet!
--COSMO MONKHOUSE.
Violets, shy violets,
How many hearts with thee compare,
Who hide themselves in thickest green,
And thence unseen
Ravish the enraptured air
With sweetness, dewy, fresh and fair!
--ANONYMOUS.
I think the very violets
Are looking the way you’ll come!
--ALICE CARY.
Once, long ago, in summer’s glow,
We threaded, you and I,
A garden’s maze of pleasant ways,
Whose beauty charmed the eye,--
Where violets bent in sweet content
And pinks stood proud and high.
--ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
Then, feeble man, be wise, tak tent
How industry can fetch content.
Behold the bees where’er they wing,
Or through the bonny bowers o’ spring,
Where violets or roses blaw,
An’ siller dew-draps nightly fa’.
--ROBERT FERGUSON.
In her hair the sunbeams nest,
And in her eyes the violets blow,
While in the summer of her breast
The songbird thoughts flit to and fro.
--ETHEL M. KELLEY.
Violets steeped in dreamy odors,
Humble as the Mother mild,
Blue as were her eyes when watching
O’er her sleeping child.
--ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
O Mother Nature, kind to every child
Blessed with the gift of speech, the gift of grace,
Teach thou the modest violet, shy and wild,
To look with trustfulness into my face.
--ISAAC B. CHOATE.
In Farsistan the violet spreads
Its leaves to the rival sky.
--RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
My love, whose lips are softer far
Than drowsy poppy petals are,
And sweeter than the violet.
--ANDREW LANG.
From wintry days blue violets shrink
From wintry lives blue eyes will turn.
--HARRISON ROBERTSON.
Her eyes be like the violets
Ablow in Sudbury lane;
When she doth smile, her face is sweet
As blossoms after rain.
--LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE.
Through jocund reel, or measured tread
Of stately minuet,
Like fairy vision shone the bloom
Of rose and violet,
As, hand in hand with Washington,
The hero of the day,
The smiling face and nymph-like grace
Of Nancy led the way.
--ZITELLA COCKE.
You violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own,--
What are you when the Rose is blown?
--SIR HENRY WOTTON.
Rock-gnawing lichens that forerun the feet
Of violets.
--JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE.
True Brahmin, in the meadows wet,
Expound the Vedas of the violet!
--RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Soon again shall music swell the breeze;
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees
Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung
And violets scattered round; and old and young
In every cottage porch with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and gazing, bless the scene;
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side,
Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride.
--SAMUEL ROGERS.
Der Mai ist da mit seinen goldnen Lichtern
Und seinen Lüften und gewürzten Düften,
Und freundlich lockt er mit den weissen Blüthen,
Und grusst aus tausend blauen Veilchenaugen.
--HEINRICH HEINE.
I only know
That she was very true and good:
The queenliest lily cannot match
The shy, sweet violet of the wood.
--WEATHERLY.
Her bloom the rose outvies,
The lily dares no plea,
The violet’s glory dies,
No flower so sweet can be;
When love is in her eyes
What need of spring for me?
--ANNA MARIA FAY.
Who is there can sing of a more divine thing
Than the edge of the woods in the edge of the spring,
Ere the violets peep, while hepaticas sleep,
And still in the hollows the snow-drifts lie deep?
--MILDRED G. PHILLIPS.
The erthe was ful softe and swete.
Through moysture of the welle wete
Sprong up the sote grene, grene gras,
As fayre, as thycke, as myster was.
But moche amended it the place
That therthe was of such a grace
That it of floures hath plente,
That both in somer and wynter be.
There sprange the vyolet al newe,
And fresshe pervynke ryche of hewe,
And floures yelowe, white and rede;
Such plente grewe there never in mede.
Ful gaye was al the grounde, and queynt,
And poudred, as men had it peynt,
With many a freshe and sondry floure
That casten up ful good savoure.
--GEOFFREY CHAUCER.
Low lilies press about thy feet
With violets changing kisses sweet.
--JANE AUSTIN.
Come up, come up, O soft spring airs,
Come from your silver shining seas,
Where all day long you toss the wave
About the low and palm-plumed keys!
For here the violet in the wood
Thrills with the fulness you shall take,
And wrapped away from life and love
The wild rose dreams, and fain would wake.
--HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
CHAPTER THREE
Hear the rain whisper,
“Dear violet, come.”
--LUCY LARCOM.
CHAPTER THREE
The brown buds thicken on the trees,
Unbound, the free streams sing,
As March leads forth, across the leas,
The wild and windy spring.
Where in the fields the melted snow
Leaves hollows warm and wet,
Ere many days will sweetly blow
The first blue violet.
--ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
Along the wood-paths, warm and wet,
Springs up the frail wood-violet.
--JAMES BENJAMIN KENYON.
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.
Such sweet prophetic gladness as we feel
When first we find beneath the bare spring hills
So lately circled by the whirling snows,
The crocus peeping from the withered leaves;
When first we see the lingering day of flowers
Dawning in violets blue.
--GRACE GREENWOOD.
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.
Beauty clear and fair
Where the air
Rather like a perfume dwells;
Where the violet and the rose
Their blue veins and blush disclose
And come to honor nothing else.
--SAMUEL FLETCHER.
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.
Sweet and sad, like a white dove’s note,
Strange voices wakened my soul to glee,
And soft scents strayed from the violet’s throat.
--BERNARD WELLER.
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.
Her mild eyes were innocent of ill
As violets in sheltered nooks enshrined.
--CARRYL.
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 the air.
--JOHN TODHUNTER.
Are there violets in the sod,
Crocuses beneath the clod?
When will Boreas give us peace?
Or has Winter signed a lease
For another month of frost,
Leaving Spring to pay the cost?
For it seems he still is king,
Though ’tis spring.
--CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.
See, the violets call from out the grasses,
Look, the purple answers from the ground;
Azure melts and to that warbler passes,
Sudden, a sky-fleck on the fences found!
--CHARLES DE KAY.
I know that thou art the word of my God, dear violet.
--SIDNEY LANIER.
On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves,
Spring’s earliest nurselings spread their glowing leaves,
Bright with the hues from wider pictures won,
White, azure, golden,--drift, or sky, or sun;--
The snowdrop, bearing on her patient breast
The frozen trophy torn from winter’s crest;
The violet, gazing on the arch of blue
Till her own iris wears its deepened hue;
The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould,
Naked and shivering with his cup of gold.
--OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
The meadow your walks have left so sweet
That wherever a March wind sighs,
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes.
--ALFRED TENNYSON.
The warring hosts of Winter and of Spring
Are hurtling o’er the plains.
All night I heard their battle clarions ring
And jar the window-panes.
The saddened robins flit through leafless trees,
And chirp with tuneless voice,
And wait the conquering sun, the unbinding breeze;
They cannot yet rejoice.
Slowly the victor Spring her foe outflanks,
And countermines his snows;
Then, unawares, along the grassy banks,
Her ambushed violets throws.
--CHRISTOPHER P. CRANCH.
Knowledge this man prizes best
Seems fantastic to the rest:
Pondering shadows, colors, clouds,
Grass-buds and caterpillar shrouds,
Boughs on which the wild bees settle,
Tints that spot the violet’s petal.
--RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
But who hath breathed the scent of violets
And not that moment been some lover glad?
--ARLO BATES.
What blooms here,
Filling the honeyed atmosphere
With faint, delicious fragrances,
Freighted with blessed memories?
The earliest March violet,
Dear as the image of Regret,
And beautiful as Hope.
--EMMA LAZARUS.
Violets and bilberry bells,
Maple-sap and daffodels,
Grass with green flag half-mast high.
--RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Pit, pat, patter, clatter,
Sudden sun, and clatter, patter!
First the blue and then the shower;
Bursting bud and smiling flower;
Brooks set free with tinkling ring;
Birds too full of song to sing;
Crisp old leaves astir with pride,
Where the timid violets hide:
All things ready with a will--
April’s coming up the hill!
--MARY MAPES DODGE.
Violets suit when homebirds build and sing.
--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake, arise, and come away
To the wild woods and the plains;
To the pools where winter rains
Image all their roof of leaves;
Where the pine its garland weaves,
Of sapless green and ivy dim,
Round stems that never kiss the sun;
Where the lawns and pastures be,
And the sand-hills of the sea;
Where the melting hoar-frost wets
The daisy-star that never sets;
And wind-flowers and violets,
Which yet join not scent to hue,
Crown the pale year, weak and new.
--PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
CHAPTER FOUR
The lone violet, which for love’s own sake,
Its life exhales in pure unconscious good.
--FRANCES L. MACE.
CHAPTER FOUR
In my breast
Spring wakens too; and my regret
Becomes an April violet,
And buds and blossoms like the rest.
--ALFRED TENNYSON.
Deep violets you liken to
The kindest eyes that look on you
Without a thought disloyal.
--ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
To thee the nymphs of the forest offer their store of lilies,
And at thy feet fair Nais lays her violets pale.
--VIRGIL.
The wind sprang up in the tree-tops
And shrieked with a voice of death,
But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees,
Was touched with a violet’s breath.
--PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR.
One morn a lad cried in the street,
“Fresh violets!” and, as in answer sweet,
A bluebird flung, bouquet-like, clear and strong,
Athwart the misty window, his first song.
--WILLIAM STRUTHERS.
The April morn
Climbs softly up the eastern sky,
And glimmers through the milk-white thorn,
Or dances where the violets lie.
--SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
April violets glow
In wayside nooks, close clustering into groups,
Like shy elves hiding from the traveler’s eye.
--THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
Violets begin to blush;
Speedwell opens too her eye
And the kingcup wooes the sky.
--EDWARD CAPERN.
It isn’t raining rain to me, but fields of clover bloom,
Where any buccaneering bee can find a bed and room;
A health unto the happy, and a fig for him who frets!
It isn’t raining rain to me, it’s raining violets.
--ANONYMOUS.
She walked across the fields icebound,
Like some shy, sunny hint of spring,
And stooping suddenly she found
A violet, a dainty thing,
Which shunned the chilly light of day
Until sweet Aprille came that way.
--HARRISON ROBERTSON.
The violet trills, through the bluebird,
Of the heaven that within her she feels.
--LUCY LARCOM.
Like those same winds when, startled from their lair,
They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks
From icy caves, even as thy clear looks
Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care.
--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
And now the other violets are crowding up to see
What welcome in this blustering world may chance for them to be.
They lift themselves on slender stems in every shaded place,
Heads over heads, all turned one way, wonder in every face.
--LUCY LARCOM.
It is April, crying sore and weeping
O’er the chilly earth so brown and bare.
“When I went away,” she murmurs, sobbing,
“All my violet banks were starred with blue;
Who, O who has been here, basely robbing
Bloom and odor from the fragrant crew?”
Thus she plaineth. Then ten million voices
Tiny, murmurous, like drops of rain,
Raised in song as when the wind rejoices,
Ring the answer, “We are here again!”
--SARAH CHANNING WOOLSEY.
Now fades the last long streak of snow,
Now bourgeons every maze of quick
About the flowering squares, and thick
By ashen roots the violets grow.
--ALFRED TENNYSON.
Violets now, that strew
The green lap of the new-come spring.
--WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
Elder boughs were budding yet,
Oaken boughs looked wintry still,
But primrose and veined violet
In the mossful turf were set,
While mating birds made haste to sing
And build with right good-will.
--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
Violets,
Which April ne’er forgets!
--EMILY S. OAKEY.
Sweetly breathing, vernal air,
That with kind warmth doth repair
Winter’s ruins; from whose breast
All the gums and spice o’ the East
Borrow their perfumes; whose eye
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky;
Whose disheveled tresses shed
Pearls upon the violet bed.
--THOMAS CAREW.
A wealth of clover clothes the place
Where, clad in buff-lined coats of blue,
Our countrymen o’erthrew
Their alien foe; and violets efface
All signs of combat.
--D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.
Down through the sunshine
Wings flutter and fly;--
Quick, little violet,
Open your eye!
--LUCY LARCOM.
Where violets hide,
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet’s side,
And blue-birds, in the misty spring,
Of cloudless skies and summer sing.
--WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Here the first violets
Perhaps will bud unseen,
And a dove, maybe,
Return to nestle here.
--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
In winter, when the garden-plots were bare,
And deep winds piloted the shriven snow,
He saw its gleaming in the cottage fire,
While, with a book of botany on his knee,
He sat and hunger’d for a breath of spring.
Here beds of roses sweetened all the page;
Here lilies whiter than the falling snow
Crept gleaming softly from the printed lines;
Here dewy violets sparkled till the book
Dazzled his eyes with rays of misty blue.
--ROBERT BUCHANAN.
Die blauen Veilchen der Aengelein,
Die rothen Rosen der Wängelein,
Die weissen Lilien der Händchen klein,
Die blühen und blühen noch immerfort,
Und nur das Herzchen ist verdorrt.
--HEINRICH HEINE.
Again has come the springtime
With the crocus’ golden bloom,
With the smell of the fresh-turned earth mould
And the violet’s perfume.
--SAMUEL LONGFELLOW.
Under the green hedges, after the snow,
There do the dear little violets grow,
Hiding their modest and beautiful heads
Under the hawthorne in soft, mossy beds.
--JOHN MOULTRIE.
A duller sense than mine should feel
The stir in nature’s warming soul;
It makes the shouting bluebirds reel,
And bursts the violet’s twisted scroll.
--GEORGE HENRY BOKER.
I see Thee in the distant blue,
But in the violet’s dell of dew,
Behold, I breathe and touch Thee, too.
--JOHN B. TABB.
Spring sat dejected in a sheltered nook
And sighed because of the long-lingering snow,
And prayed that warm, life-giving winds might blow;
When at her feet there grew, with trembling look,
A violet that whispered: “I forsook
My cell to comfort thee and still thy woe.”
Then, filled with hope, Spring said: “I now shall go
And greet each hill and vale and winding brook.”
Where’er she went, earth blessed her with its flowers:
Arbutus, columbines, anemones,
And sunny marigolds that deck the wet
Lowlands. But in the soothing moonlit hours,
When dreaming ’neath the blossom-laden trees,
She holds with loving hands the violet.
--JOHN LUTHER BRENIZER.
Ein kleines blau Veilchen
Stand eben erst ein Weilchen
Unten im Thal am Bach;
Da dacht’ es einmal nach
Und sprach:
“Dass ich hier unten blüh’
Lohnt sich kaum der Müh’;
Muss mich überall bücken
Und drücken.
Ei,” spricht’ es, “hier ist’s schön,
Aber alles kann man doch nicht sehen;
So ein Berg
Ist doch nur ein Schwerz;
Auf der Alp da droben,
Das wär, eher zu loben:
Da möcht’ ich wohl sein,
Da gückt’ ich bis in Himmel hinein.”
--FRIEDRICH FÖRSTER.
CHAPTER FIVE
O violet, blue-eyed violet,
Scented with sweetest breath!
--CAROLINE A. SOULE.
CHAPTER FIVE
Up from the sweet South comes the lingering May,
Sets the first wind-flower trembling on its stem;
Scatters her violets with lavish hands,
White, blue and amber.
--CELIA THAXTER.
The vales shall laugh in flowers, the woods
Grow misty-green with leafing buds,
And violets and wind-flowers sway
Against the throbbing heart of May.
--JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
When springtime comes,
Primrose and violet haunt the mossy bank.
--HENRY G. HEWLETT.
Rosy and white on the wanton breeze
The petals fall from the apple-trees,
And under the hedge where the shade lies wet
Are children, picking the violet.
--F. W. BOURDILLON.
The same sweet sounds are in my ear
My early childhood loved to hear.
The violet there, in soft May dew,
Comes up, as modest and as true.
--WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Farewell to thee, France! but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then--
The violet still grows in the depths of thy valleys,
Though withered, thy tears will unfold it again.
--LORD BYRON.
Where the rose doth wear her blushes
Like a garment, and the fair
And modest violets sit together,
Weaving, in mild May weather,
Purples out of dew and air
Fit for any queen to wear.
--ALICE CARY.
Hear the rain whisper,
“Dear violet, come!”
--LUCY LARCOM.
On every sunny hillock spread,
The pale primrose lifts her head;
Rich with sweets, the western gale
Sweeps along the cowslip’d dale;
Every bank, with violets gay,
Smiles to welcome in the May.
--ROBERT SOUTHEY.
The air was soft and fresh and sweet;
The slopes in spring’s new verdure lay,
And wet with dew-drops at my feet
Bloomed the young violets of May.
--JOHN HOWARD BRYANT.
In each hedgerow spring must hasten
Cowslips sweet to set;
And under every leaf, in shadow
Hide a violet.
--ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
The buds of April had burst into bloom on the willow and maple,
Fresh with dew was the sod, with dim blue violets sprinkled.
--D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.
The dream of winter broken,
Behold her, blue and dear,
Shy Violet, sure token
That April’s here!
--FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.
Not the first violet on a woodland lea
Seemed a more visible gift of Spring than she.
--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
No more shall meads be decked with flowers,
Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers,
Nor greenest buds on branches spring,
Nor warbling birds delight to sing,
Nor April violets paint the grove,
If I forsake my Celia’s love.
--THOMAS CAREW.
And O, and O,
The daisies blow,
And the primroses are wakened;
And the violets white
Sit in silver light,
And the green buds are long in the spike end.
--OLD ENGLISH SONG.
A violet that nestles cheek to the mellowed ground;
The humming of a happy brook about its daily round;
The woody breath of pines; the smell of loosening sods;
Such simple links of being,--such common things of God’s.
--ELLA M. BAKER.
Merry, ever-merry May!
Made of sunbeams, shade and showers,
Bursting buds and breathing flowers!
Dripping locked and rosy-vested,
Violet slippered, rainbow crested.
--WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.
There were banks of purple violet,
And arbutus, first whisper of the May.
--FRANCES L. MACE.
Through thee, meseems, the very rose is red,
From thee the violet steals its breath in May.
--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
Beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet’s breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Over me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and of deity;
Beauty through my senses stole,--
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
--RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Now the tender, sweet arbutus
Trails her blossom-clustered vines,
And the many-figured cinquefoil
In the shady hollow twines;
Here, behind this crumbled tree-trunk,
With the cooling showers wet,
Fresh and upright, blooms the sunny
Golden-yellow violet.
--DORA READ GOODALE.
Saintly violets, plucked in bosky dell.
--CLINTON SCOLLARD.
Thy feasting tables shall be hills
With daisies spread, and daffadils;
Where thou shalt sit, and red-brest by,
For meat, shall give thee melody.
Ile give thee chaines and carkanets
Of primroses and violets.
--ROBERT HERRICK.
With saucy gesture
Primroses flare,
And roguish violets
Hidden with care.
And whatsoever
There stirs and strives,
The spring’s contented,
It works and thrives.
--JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.
White violets, pure violets,
That might be wreathed in coronets
For baby brows of spotless mould,
That no earth shadows overfold;
White winsome things with dovelike wings
That brood in grassy nest,
As thick as stars no tempest mars
With presence of unrest.
--EMILY S. OAKEY.
Look forth, Beloved, through the tender air,
And let thine eyes
The violets be.
--BAYARD TAYLOR.
The violets whisper from the shade
Which their own leaves have made:
“Men scent our fragrance on the air,
Yet take no heed
Of humble lessons we would read.”
--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
The gentle drift
Of odorous distillings in the air,
Daffodils growing on the field’s green breast,
Buds all a-blow, and the enchanted breath
Of violets peeping in the damp hedgerow,
Kindled to being.
--CHRISTINA CATHERINE LIDDELL.
That young May violet to me is dear,
And I visit the silent streamlet near,
To look on the lovely flower.
--WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
The larch has donned its rosy plumes,
And hastes its emerald beads to string:
The warblers now are on the wing,
Across the pathless ocean glooms.
Through tender grass and violet blooms
I move along and gaily sing.
--RICHARD WILTON.
Violets stir and arbutus wakes,
Claytonia’s rosy bells unfold;
Dandelion through the meadow makes
A royal road, with seals of gold.
--HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
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 so, too, am I.
Come, pretty violet,
Winter’s away:
Come, for without you
May isn’t May.
Now all is beautiful
Under the sky.
May’s here--and violets!
Winter, good-bye!
--LUCY LARCOM.
Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace,
Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first,
The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue.
--JAMES THOMSON.
While May bedecks the naked trees
With tassels and embroideries,
And many blue-eyed violets beam
Along the edges of the stream.
--HENRY VAN DYKE.
The country ever has a lagging spring,
Waiting for May to call its violets forth,
And June its roses.
--WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
And in the meadows soft, on either hand,
Blossomed white parsley and the violet.
--HOMER.
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.
Ye are the maiden posies
And so graced
To be placed
’Fore damask roses.
--ROBERT HERRICK.
Tute le barche parte via sta note,
E quela del mio ben doman de note;
Tute le barche cargarà de tole,
E quela del mio ben de rose e viole.
--VENETIAN SONG.
CHAPTER SIX
Better to smell the violet cool,
Than sip the glowing wine.
--GEORGE MACDONALD.
CHAPTER SIX
Wooed by the June day’s fervent breath,
Violets opened their violet eyes.
--LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
The wind, that poet of the elements,
Tonight comes whistling down our tropic lanes,
And wakes the slumbrous hours with sweet refrains.
· · · · · ·
Before the pilgrim minstrel violets place
The purple censers of their fervent youth.
--MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND.
Now in snowdrops pure and pale
Breaks the sere grass; the violet rends her veil.
--HENRY G. HEWLETT.
The violet’s charms I prize, indeed,
So modest ’tis, and fair.
--JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.
Seek the bank where flowering elders crowd,
Where scattered wild the lily of the vale
Its balmy essence breathes; where cowslips hang
The dewy head, where purple violets lurk
With all the lowly children of the shade.
--JAMES THOMSON.
So then the world’s repeating its old story?
Once more, thank God, its fairest page we turn!
The violets and mayflowers, like the glory
Of gold and color in old missals, burn
With fadeless shimmering;
These are its headings and vignettes. The heart
Beats quicker when the Book of Life apart
Falls at the page of Spring!
--JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.
Currents of fragrance, from the orange-tree,
And sward of violets, breathing to and fro,
Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea,
Refresh the idle boatman where they blow.
--WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Close by the roots of moss-grown stumps,
The sweetest and the first to blow,
The blue-eyed violets, in clumps,
Kiss one another as they grow.
--ANONYMOUS.
The purple heath and golden broom
On moory mountains catch the gale,
O’er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.
--JAMES MONTGOMERY.
She who sung so gently to the lute
Her dream of home, steals timidly away,
Shrinking as violets do in summer’s ray.
--THOMAS MOORE.
Lead me where amid the tranquil vale
The broken streamlet flows in silver light;
And I will linger when the gale
O’er the bank of violets sighs,
Listening to hear its softened sounds arise.
--ROBERT SOUTHEY.
In lower pools that see
All their marges clothed all around
With the innumerable lily;
Whence the golden-girdled bee
Flits through flowering rush to fret
White or duskier violet.
--ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE.
Blue violets, blithe violets,
Who that is human e’er forgets
Your brightness and your blithesomeness,
Your innocent meek tenderness,
That e’er hath stood in budding wood
And seen you at his feet,
Like rarest elves that deck themselves
In fairyhood complete,
Though blue as mist the sun has kissed
In valleys wild and sweet?
--EMILY S. OAKEY.
Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,
In purple’s richest pride arrayed,
Your errand here fulfil;
Go bid the artist’s simple stain
Your lustre imitate in vain,
And match your Master’s skill.
--ANONYMOUS.
They are the nation of the bees,
Born from the breath of flowers.
Low in the violet’s breast of blue
For treasured food they sink;
They know the flowers that hold the dew
For their small race to drink.
--ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER.
Sweet-brier, leaning on the crag
That the lady-fern hides under;
Harebells, violets white and blue:
Who has sweeter flowers, I wonder?
--LUCY LARCOM.
Violet, delicate, sweet,
Down in the deep of the wood,
Hid in thy still retreat,
Far from the sound of the street,
Man and his merciless mood.
--COSMO MONKHOUSE.
I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows.
--WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
Under foot the violet,
Crocus and hyacinth, with rich inlay,
Broidered the ground.
--JOHN MILTON.
In my veins a music as of boughs
When the cool aspen-fingers of the rain
Feel for the eyelids of the earth in spring.
In every vein quick life; within my soul
The meekness of some sweet eternity
Forgot; and in my eyes soft violet-thoughts
That widen’d in the eye-ball to the light,
And peep’d, and trembled chilly back to the soul
Like leaves of violets closing.
--ROBERT BUCHANAN.
A little child with wondering, wide blue eyes
Shining with ecstasy, yet dimmed with tears,
As though a sudden joy strove with her fears
Only half conquered, while a sweet surprise
Like the first radiant glow of dawning skies
In the uplifted, wistful face appears;
Her tiny foot advanced, as one who nears
The gates of some long-wished-for Paradise,--
With parted lips the timid maiden stands
Clothed in her childish robe of spotless white;
Close to her bosom, in her little hands,
Clasping a knot of violets, all bright
With morning dew, and shyly whispering
In tones of bird and streamlet: “I am Spring!”
--WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
Now boys and laughing girls pluck violets
And all the dainty wildflowers of the field.
--OVID.
She is so noble, firm and true,
I drink truth from her eyes,
As violets gain the heavens’ own blue
In gazing at the skies.
--JOHN HAY.
The violet in her greenwood bower
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
--SIR WALTER SCOTT.
The lone violet which for love’s own sake
Its life exhales in pure unconscious good,
Some sunless glen a glowing shrine to make,
With urn of incense in the solitude.
--FRANCES L. MACE.
The wild rose sends a honeyed breath
To woo the bee from neighboring wold;
The violet holds its dainty cup
To catch the morning’s earliest gold.
--W. M. L. JAY.
Her passions the shy violet
From Hafiz never hides.
Love-longings of the raptured bird
The bird to him confides.
--RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
They knew me not,--blue flower, blue eyes;
She, careless, passed me when we met;
The tender glance which I would prize
Above all things, the violet
Received, and I went on my way,
Companioned with the cheerless day.
--HARRISON ROBERTSON.
Like some immortal heathen thing,
All fresh with bloom, with odor sweet,
With brook and bird and breeze in tune,
The beautiful bright earth of June
Moves to the fullness of her noon,
While serving sunbeams round her fling
The purple violets as they fleet.
--HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
Run, little rivulet, run!
Sing of the flowers, every one,--
Of the delicate harebell and violet blue;
Of the red mountain rosebud, all dripping with dew.
--LUCY LARCOM.
Safe from the storm and the heat,
Breathing of beauty and good,
Fragrantly, under thy hood,
Violet!
--COSMO MONKHOUSE.
O violets, blue-eyed violets!
Scented with sweetest breath,
You seem, as I stoop to pluck you,
To whisper, “There is no death.”
--CAROLINE A. SOULE.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness, some violets lie.
--OSCAR WILDE.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Soft-throated South, breathing of summer’s ease,
Sweet breath, whereof the violet’s life is made!
--GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.
I heard the laughter of a brook,
A tiny brook, that babbled through
The fields and told the tales it took
Of bird and reed and water-thing;
And stooping low I saw a gleam
Of violets that nodded to
Their gay reflection in the stream.
--MARY F. FAXON.
More shy than the shy violet
Hiding when the wind doth pass.
--ELLEN M. CORTISSOZ.
The ferns bend low, the grasses lean,
As doing homage to a queen,
The fairest queens that ever smiled
On cavalier, or king beguiled:
Oh, sweet and tender violets!
--M. D. TOLMAN.
I go to the river there below
Where in bunches the violets grow,
And sun and shadow meet.
--HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Beneath
Peep the blue violets out of black loam.
--RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
The violet varies from the lily as far
As oak from elm.
--ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
Lover of each gracious thing
Which makes glad the summer-tide,
From the daisies clustering
And the violets, purple-eyed,
To those shy and hidden blooms
Which in forest coverts stay.
--ANONYMOUS.
I thread the rustling ranks, that hide
Their misty violet treasure.
--BAYARD TAYLOR.
But when the green world buds to blossoming,
Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,
Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth and hope:
Or if a later, sadder love be born,
Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,
But give itself.
--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
And now, when summer south-winds blow
And brier and harebell bloom again,
I tread the pleasant paths we trod,
I see the violet-sprinkled sod
Whereon she leaned.
--JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
Sisters, ere the moon is set,
Twine the white, white violet,
While the dews are on it yet,
With the myriad-starrèd mignonette.
--FORCEYTHE WILSON.
Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rare
The summer to its rose may bring;
Far sweeter to the wooing air
The hidden violet of the spring.
--BAYARD TAYLOR.
And near the snow-drop’s tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.
--HENRY TIMROD.
Pale marguerites, that swayed with dainty grace
To every breeze, the violet’s sweet, shy face,
And heart’sease, wonder-eyed.
--J. TORREY CAPEN.
Oh, those gardens dear and far,
Where the wild wind-fairies are!
Though we see not, we can hearken
To them when the spring skies darken,
Singing clearly, singing purely,
Songs of far-off Elfland surely,
And they pluck the wild wind posies,
Lilies, violets and roses.
--PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
Miss Violet displays no hood,
Nor garbs herself as violets should--
She sports a witching hat;
Nor is she found in dim retreat,
But often on the crowded street
Her boots go pit-a-pat.
--SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
And give my simple thought the skill to know
What interchanging hints between us pass;
What sense of joy it is that thrills me so
Whene’er I see blue violets in the grass.
--ISAAC B. CHOATE.
Here eglantine embalmed the air,
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;
The primrose pale, and violet flower,
Found in each cliff a narrow bower.
--SIR WALTER SCOTT.
It trembled off the keys,--a parting kiss
So sweet,--the angel slept upon his sword
As through the gate of Paradise we swept,--
Partakers of creation’s primal bliss!
--The air was heavy with the breath
Of violets and love till death--
Forgetful of eternal banishment,
Deep down the dusk of passion-haunted ways,
Lost in the dreaming alchemies of tone,
Drenched in the dew no other wings frequent,
--Our thirsting hearts drank in the breath
Of violets and love in death--
There was no world, no flesh, no boundary line--
Spirit to spirit--chord and dissonance,
Beyond the jealousy of space or time
His life in one low cry broke over mine!
--The waking angel drew a shuddering breath
Of violets and love and death.
--MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON.
Bay leaves between
And primroses green
Embellish the sweet violet.
--EDMUND SPENSER.
Better to smell the violet cool
Than sip the glowing wine;
Better to hark a hidden brook
Than watch a diamond shine.
--GEORGE MACDONALD.
Upon the water’s velvet edge
The purple blossoms breathe delight,
Close nestled to the grassy sedge
As sweet as dawn, as dark as night.
O brook and branches, far away,
My heart keeps time with you today!
“The violets--the violets!”
--FRANCES L. MACE.
Call the crowfoot and the crocus,
Call the pale anemone,
Call the violet and the daisy,
Clothed with careful modesty.
--PHŒBE CARY.
The mosses are wet
Under chestnut and thorn
With blossoms new-born
Of dim violet.
--JOHN A. SYMONDS.
Give me only a bud from the trees
Or a blade of grass in morning dew,
Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,
I could look on it forever.
--SYDNEY DOBELL.
How could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet!
Some of thy modesty,
That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou’dst been,
O give to strengthen me.
--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,
Do paint the meadows with delight.
--WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.