Stars will blossom in the darkness, Violets bloom beneath the snow.
That queen of secrecy, the violet.
Each violet peeps from its dwelling to gaze at the bright stars above.
Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.
What a pity flowers can utter no sound!-A singing rose, a whispering violet, a murmuring honeysuckle ... oh, what a rare and exquisite miracle would these be!
Violets are God's apology for February.
If a kiss could be seen I think it would look like a violet.
This is the violet hour, the hour of hush and wonder, when the affectations glow and valor is reborn, when the shadows deepen along the edge of the forest and we believe that, if we watch carefully, at any moment we may see the unicorn.
Big doesn't necessarily mean better. Sunflowers aren't better than violets.
Early violets blue and white Dying for their love of light.
The violets prattle and titter, And gaze on the stars high above.
When April steps aside for May,
Like diamonds all the rain-drops glisten;
Fresh violets open every day:
To some new bird each hour we listen.
The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks.
Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm schizophrenic, and so am I.
The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.
Who are the violets now
That strew the lap of the new-come spring?
I think the King is but a man as I am: the violet smells to him as it doth to me.
The eyes of spring, so azure, Are peeping from the ground; They are the darling violets, That I in nosegays bound.
Oh! faint delicious spring-time violet, Thine odor like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let A thought of sorrow free.
You can't be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a squirrel of subversion or challenge the ideology of a violet.
Again the violet of our early days Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, And kindles into fragrance at his blaze.
Violet! sweet violet! Thine eyes are full of tears; Are they wet Even yet With the thought of other years?
And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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?
And the violet lay dead while the odour flew On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue.
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