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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,
Its colors 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 glade.

Then let me to the valley go,

This pretty flower to see,

That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.




Violets, violets, sweet March violets Sure as March comes, they'll come too, First the white and then the bluePretty violets!

White, with just a pinky dye;

Blue, as little baby's eye,

So like violets.

Though the rough wind shakes the house, Knocks about the budding boughs,

There are violets.

Though the passing snow-storms come,
Frightening all the birdies dumb,
Up spring violets:

One by one among the grass,
Saying "Pluck me!" as we pass,—
Scented violets.

By and by there'll be so many,
We'll pluck dozens nor miss any:
Sweet, sweet violets!


Violets, violets, sweet March violets.-Page 8.

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Children, when you go to play,
Look beneath the hedge to-day:-
Mamma likes violets.



O faint, delicious, springtime 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 grass; The lark sings o'er my head,

Drowned in the sky-O, pass, ye visions, pass! I would that I were dead!

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