Page:Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922).djvu/317

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FLOWERS
FLOWERS
279
1

And all the meadows, wide unrolled,
Were green and silver, green and gold,
Where buttercups and daisies spun
Their shining tissues in the sun.

Julia C. R. DorrUnanswered.


2

The harebells nod as she passes by,
The violet lifts its tender eye,
The ferns bend her steps to greet,
And the mosses creep to her dancing feet.

Julia C. R. DorrOver the Wall.


3

Up from the gardens floated the perfume
Of roses and myrtle, in their perfect bloom.

Julia C. R. DorrVashti's Scroll. L. 91.


The rose is fragrant, but it fades in time:
The violet sweet, but quickly past the prime:
White lilies hang their heads, and soon decay,
And white snow in minutes melts away.
Dryden—Trans, from Theocritus. The Despairing Lover. L. 57.
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{{Hoyt quote
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 | text = <poem>The flowers of the forest are a' wede away.
Jane Elliott—The Flowers of the Forest.


Why does the rose her grateful fragrance yield,
And yellow cowslips paint the smiling field?
Gay—Panthea. L. 71.


They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory—bring flowers, bright flowers!
Felicia D. Hfimans—Bring Flowers.
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{{Hoyt quote
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 | text = <poem>Through the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.
Felicia D. Hemans—Palm-Tree.


Faire pledges of a fruitful tree
Why do yee fall so fast?
Your date is not so past
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile
And go at last.
Hehriok—To Blossoms.
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{{Hoyt quote
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 | text = <poem>The daisy is fair, the day-lily rare,
The bud o' the rose as sweet as it's bonnie.
Hogg—Avid Joe Nicolson's Nannie.
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{{Hoyt quote
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 | text = <poem>What are the flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel?
The lovely flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel!
The thistle's purple bonnet,
And bonny heather bell,
Oh, they're the flowers of Scotland.
All others that excel!
Hogg—The Flowers of Scotland.


Yellow japanned buttercups and star-disked dandelions,—just as we see them lying in the grass, like sparks that have leaped from the kindling sun of summer.
Holmes—The Professor at the Breakfast-Table. X.


I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs, where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,—
The tree is living yet.
Hood—I Remember, I Remember.


I may not to the world impart
The secret of its power,
But treasured in my inmost heart
I keep my faded flower.
Ellen C. Howarth—'Tis but a Little Faded Flower.


'Tis but a little faded flower,
But oh, how fondly dear!
'Twill bring me back one golden hour,
Through many a weary year.
Ellen C. Howarth—'Tis but a Little Faded Flower.


Growing one's own choice words and fancies
In orange tubs, and beds of pansies;
One's sighs and passionate declarations,
In odorous rhetoric of carnations.
Leigh Hunt—Love-Letters Made of Flowers.


Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn
The shrine of Flora in her early May.
Keats—Dedication to Leigh Hunt.


Above his head
Four lily stalks did their white honours wed
To make a coronal; and round him grew
All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue,
Together intertwined and trammell'd fresh;
The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh,
Shading its Ethiop berries.
Keats—Endymion. Bk. n. L. 413.


Young playmates of the rose and daffodil,
Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill
Your baskets high
With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines
Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
Keats—Endymion. Bk. IV. L. 575.
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{{Hoyt quote
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 | text = <poem> * * * the rose
Blendeth its odor with the violet,—
Solution sweet.
Keats—Eve of St. Agnes. St. 36.


And O and O,
The daisies blow,
And the primroses are waken'd;
And the violets white
Sit in silver plight,
And the green bud's as long as the spike end.
Keats—In a Letter to Haydon.


Underneath large blue-bells tented
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not.

KeatsOde. Bards of Passion and of Mirth.