A spring upon whose brink the anemones
  And hooded violets and shrinking ferns
  And tremulous woodland things crowd unafraid,
  Sure of the refreshing that they always find.
Unvisited.  M.J.  PRESTON.

  The modest, lowly violet,
  In leaves of tender green is set;
  So rich she cannot hide from view,
  But covers all the bank with blue.
Spring Scatters Far and Wide.  D.R.  GOODALE.

  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 Violet.  W.W.  STORY.

  In kindly showers and sunshine bud
  The branches of the dull gray wood;
  Out from its sunned and sheltered nooks
  The blue eye of the violet looks.
Mogg Megone, Pt.  III.  J.G.  WHITTIER.

  Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear,
  The pink waxen blossoms are waking, I hear;
  We’ll gather an armful of fragrant wild cheer. 
  Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear,
    Come for arbutus, my dear.
Come for Arbutus.  S.L.  OBERHOLTZER.

  A violet by a mossy stone
    Half hidden from the eye! 
  Fair as a star when only one
    Is shining in the sky.
Lucy.  W. WORDSWORTH.

  Of all the months that fill the year,
    Give April’s month to me,
  For earth and sky are then so filled
    With sweet variety.

  The apple blossoms’ shower of pearl,
    Though blent with rosier hue,
  As beautiful as woman’s blush,
    As evanescent too.
Apple Blossoms.  L.E.  LANDON.

And buttercups are coming,
And scarlet columbine,
And in the sunny meadows
The dandelions shine.
Spring.  C. THAXTER.

SUMMER.

            Ah!  Bring childhood’s flower! 
  The half-blown daisy bring.
Flowers for the Heart.  J. ELLIOTT.

There is a flower, a little flower
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
A Field Flower.  J. MONTGOMERY.

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.
To the Daisy.  W. WORDSWORTH.

  Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower
  Near the lark’s nest, and in their natural hour
  Have passed away; less happy than the one
  That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove
  The tender charm of poetry and love.
Poems composed in the Summer of1833.  W. WORDSWORTH.

  With little here to do or see
  Of things that in the great world be,
  Sweet daisy! oft I talk to thee. 
      For thou art worthy,
  Thou unassuming commonplace
  Of nature, with that homely face,
  And yet with something of a grace
      Which love makes for thee!
To the Daisy.  W. WORDSWORTH.