VIOLET. 
VIOLETS. 
J. MOULTRIE. 
Under the green hedges after the snow, 
There do the dear little violets grow, 
Hiding their modest and beautiful heads 
Under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds. 
Sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky, 
Down there do the dear little violets lie, 
Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen ; 
By the leaves you may know where the violet hath been. 
POETRY OF THE VIOLET. 
BARRY CORNWALL. 
I LOVE all things the seasons bring, 
All buds that open, birds that sing, 
All hues from white to jet ; 
All the sweet words that summer sends 
When she recalls her flowery friends, 
But chief—the violet. 
I love—how much I love !—the rose, 
On whose soft lips the south wind blows 
In pretty, amorous threat; 
The lily paler than the moon, 
The odorous, wondrous world of June, 
Yet more—the violet! 
She comes, the first, the fairest thing 
That Heaven upon the earth doth fling, 
Ere Winter’s star has set; 
