That queen of secrecy, the violet.
Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.
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.
The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks.
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!
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.
Early violets blue and white Dying for their love of light.
I think the King is but a man as I am: the violet smells to him as it doth to me.
Each violet peeps from its dwelling to gaze at the bright stars above.
The violets prattle and titter, And gaze on the stars high above.
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.
Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm schizophrenic, and so am I.
Deep violets, you liken to The kindest eyes that look on you, Without a thought disloyal.
Stars will blossom in the darkness, Violets bloom beneath the snow.
Winds wanders, and dews drip earthward; Rains fall, suns rise and set; Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet.
In our film profession you may have Gable's looks, Tracy's art, Marlene's legs or Liz's violet eyes, but they don't mean a thing without that swinging thing called courage.
You can't be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a squirrel of subversion or challenge the ideology of a violet.
We are violets blue, For our sweetness found Careless in the mossy shades, Looking on the ground. Love's dropp'd eyelids and a kiss,-- Such our breath and blueness is.
I'm a fart in a gale of wind, a humble violet under a cow pat.
Who are the violets now
That strew the lap of the new-come spring?
Everything about Florence seems to be colored with a mild violet, like diluted wine.
Surely as cometh the Winter, I know
There are Spring violets under the snow.
Oh! faint delicious spring-time violet, Thine odor like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let A thought of sorrow free.
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.
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