Violet Poems – 50 Poems About Violet Flowers Pure & Lovely Beauty

Delphiniums, also known as Violet flowers, symbolize lightness, elegance, grace, and loyalty. Violets are colorful but the most common is purple. In addition, the flower expresses shyness, timidity, and has a gentle seductive fragrance. Thus, throughout the works of poetry and literary, Violet flowers are used very popular.

Violet flowers represent the beauty of all purple flowers. Being a highly attractive color, it shows luxurious elegance. And so when looking at a purple Violet flower, it is easy to think of a girl with such graceful beauty and artistic elegance. This flower symbolizes love, loyalty despite all challenges and difficulties. Violets also mean the promise of a better life. If a woman receives violets, this is a lucky gift.

Violet flowers have touched many romantic souls and become the endless inspiration for poets. Nowadays, to famous poets, from Homer to Tennyson, Violet’s beauty and fragrance are the sources of feelings for many popular Violet poems. Below are some poems about Violet flowers collected by OZoFe.Com, do you like these poems?

1, Autochthonous by M.Nilsen

Sometimes I sojourn outside this world,
Achieving full autonomy:
I live in the domain of books, poetry, art and music,
Transcending the temporal,
Revelling in the psychic realm of Nirvana.

Divine madness and heavenly order enable me to move forward.
The past and the future dwell in the moment,
But this moment is paramount.

Poetry is religion and nothing to do with remuneration.
Is your personally created religion optimistic?
Let individual exegesis not embrace stone.
My symbolic visions are a presentiment of harmony.

Imbibe books purged of falsehoods,
Critical thinking the filter to quaff pure water.
Is there ever a news report unbiased?

Progress can only be made by non-violence:
A bullet possesses no rational argument;
An illegitimate leader orders the dropping of bombs and feels nothing:
See beyond the facade of their respectability:
Ruthlessness is deplorable.

My pen is the bridge,
Sharing ideas the cornerstone of democracy:
Power is in the people:
Shame those who kill.

Flowers turn towards your heart:
There is a violet that shines like a star
For those with adequate perception.
And if you listen carefully, the sun will laugh for you.

2, To a Wood-Violet by John B. Tabb

In this secluded shrine,
O miracle of grace,
No mortal eye but mine
Hath looked upon thy face.

No shadow but mine own
Hath screened thee from the sight
Of Heaven, whose love alone
Hath led me to thy light.

Whereof — as shade to shade
Is wedded in the sun, —
A moment’s glance hath made
Our souls forever one.

3, The Tax-Gatherer by John B. Tabb

“And pray, who are you?”
Said the violet blue
To the Bee, with surprise
At his wonderful size,
In her eye-glass of dew.

“I, madam,” quoth he,
“Am a publican Bee,
Collecting the tax
On honey and wax.
Have you nothing for me?”

4, Jealousy by Ameen Rihani

The violets their soft, dark lashes part,
While robins serenade them far and near;
But the anemone, with ebon heart
And blood-shot eyes, pretends she does not hear.

The violets invite the nightingale
Whose carols fall in dew upon their bed;
But the hydrangea, as saffron pale,
Holds high above the wall her nodding head.

5, Violet by Sylvia Legris

A garland to fend off the dizzies.
A garland to keep the quinsy at bay.
March closes the seeded umbilicus.
April opens the musty secundina.
Equinox the half-melt rot.
Easter the thin asquintable light.

6, Violet by John Hollander

At the song’s beginning
Even as our voices
Rise we know the last words

And what it will sound like
To sing them at the end
Of the final burden;

Just so the cold fiddler
Hums the final chords of
Each of our capriccios

Even as he starts up.
But Jack, looking out of
The house that our song had

Him build, can see no cock
Crowing in the morn at
Break of ultimate day:

How then can we now shape
Our last stanza, furnish
This chamber of codas?

Here in the pale tan of
The yet ungathered grain
There may be time to chant

The epic of whispers
In the light of a last
Candle that may be made

To outlast its waning
Wax, a frail flame shaking
In a simulacrum

Of respiration. Oh,
We shall carry it set
Down inside a pitcher

Out into the field, late
Wonderers errant in
Among the rich flowers.

Like a star reflected
In a cup of water,
It will light up no path:

Neither will it go out.
Here at the easternmost
Edge of the sunset world

Starlings perch like quick notes
On a stave of wires high
Against the page of sky

But silently: in a
Mown oatfield what text will
The dallying night leave?

–A tree of light. A bush
Unconsumed by its fire.
Branches of flame given

Sevenfold tongue that there
Might be recompounded
Out of the smashed vessels

Of oil, of blood and stain,
Wine of grass and juice of
Violet, a final

White, here at the point of
Sky water and field all
Plunged in their own deep well

Of color whose bottom
Is all of the darkness.
If clear water is to

Give light, let it be here.
And if sound beyond breath
Of candle flame endure,

Then no wailful choir of
Natural small songs, no
Blend of winds; but let be

Heard their one undersong
Filling this vast chamber
Of continuing air

With the flickering of
Cantillation, quickened
Soon in the ringing dew.

7, Violet Swords by Stephen Sturgeon

It was a matter of wearing gloves well
while lunching, while conquering Dubrovnik;
of, no one would care how, evading Hell.
Diverse employments made gentlemen tick:
Christmas turkeys; circulating trophies;
pedestal stacked upon pedestal. Today
silence has come to see what no one sees,
it’s always grim at the start of the play.
Fellows, who wait à propos their intros
clawing at the panels, such shrill tigers,
thrive unthreading the hems of the heroes.
Friends of our late friend are minor-leaguers
never to be called up but good as types,
people who will hook bras to the flagpole,
bake chocolate for a gray stranger  …    She wipes
away red records of the stocks you stole  …
Yesterday, books were thrown from the third floor,
out the window, they sank in pairs like shoes,
and I watch violet swords on a white shore,
blade-tip laid across blade-tip, where it snows.

8, To Violet by Basil Bunting

These tracings from a world that’s dead
Take for my dust-smothered Pyramid.
Count the sharp study and long toil
As pavements laid for worms to soil.
You, without knowing it, might tread
The grass where my foundation’s laid;
Your, or another’s, house be built
Where my mossed, weathered stones lie spilt;
And this unread memento be
The only lasting part of me.

9, Expecting Violets by Grant H. Code

Yes, I have noticed violets, but not
Pressed them in covers.
Even their day of blooming I forgot.
You do not quite remember half your lovers;
While I dream still
Sparse barren trees where one crow calls and hovers.
Not that I shall return to find the hill,
For the trees are gone.
I shall prefer to think you there at will
Every year, when I look out at dawn
To be surprised by spring
Lifting its crocus lips above the lawn.
Then I shall think of violet-gathering,
And a calling crow,
And a song in the empty woods that I heard you sing.
Expecting violets, I do not care to know
What day the birds break through.
It did not matter what day, long ago,
When I … when you …

10, To Last Violets by William Justema

If this is and it is the end,
take violence with you. Spend
it and Spring far from hence
or answer for the consequence.

If I could but I cannot pretend
indifference. Neither should you lend
me only what is intense
about you. Knowing I have no defense.

I wonder do you never mend
your instruments? Then wend
your way to where Spring is and thence
send me some innocence.

11, The Yellow Violet by William Cullen Bryant

When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-bird’s warble know
The yellow violet’s modest bell
Peeps from the last year’s leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery mould,
And I have seen thee blossoming
Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,
When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,
Thy early smile has stayed my walk.
But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,
I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried.
I copied them—but I regret
That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour
Awakes the painted tribes of light
I’ll not o’erlook the modest flower
That made the woods of April bright.

12, The Violets by Hannah Flagg Gould

Mary thy violets are bright
As when, a year ago, I traced
Thy name upon the leaf of white,
And in its fold thy gift was placed.

Whene’er these cherished flowers I view,
In forth so fair, with living green
And purple, still so rich and true;
It seems as Mary’s self were seen.

I mark again the smile that played
Upon thy lip, when they were thine;
And hear thy gentle words, that made
The little fragrant beauties mine.

How sweet it is to have a flower
Impressed with thoughts of one that’s dear;
To make the past a present hour,
And hold the absent ever near!

A simple leaf may brush a tear,
Or chase a cloud of care away—
May touch, with pleasant sounds, the ear,
Illumine night, and brighten day.

‘T will work a charm about the heart,
And fill with balm its deep regrets.
And such has been the tender part
Performed by thy sweet Violets!

13, The Wild Violet by Hannah Flagg Gould

Violet, violet, sparkling with dew,
Down in the meadow-land wild where you grew,
How did you come by the beautiful blue
With which your soft petals unfold?
And how do you hold up your tender, young head
When rude, sweeping winds rush along o’er your bed,
And dark, gloomy clouds ranging over you shed
Their waters so heavy and cold?

No one has nursed you, or watched you an hour,
Or found you a place in the garden or bower;
And they cannot yield me so lovely a flower,
As here I have found at my feet!
Speak, my sweet violet! answer and tell
How you have grown up and flourished so well,
And look so contented where lowly you dwell,
And we thus by accident meet!

‘The same careful hand,’ the Violet said,
‘That holds up the firmament, holds up my head!
And He, who with azure the skies overspread,
Has painted the violet blue.
He sprinkles the stars out above me by night,
And sends down the sunbeams at morning with light
To make my new coronet sparkling and bright,
When formed of a drop of his dew!

‘I’ve nought to fear from the black, heavy cloud,
Or the breath of the tempest that comes strong and loud!
Where, born in the lowland, and far from the crowd,
I know, and I live but for ONE.
He soon forms a mantle about me to cast,
Of long, silken grass, till the rain and the blast.
And all that seemed threatening have harmlessly passed,
As the clouds scud before the warm sun!’

14, The Violet by Jones Very

Thou tellest truths unspoken yet by man
By this thy lonely home and modest look;
For he has not the eyes such truths to scan,
Nor learns to read from such a lowly book;
With him it is not life firm-fixed to grow
Beneath the outspreading oaks and rising pines,
Content this humble lot of thine to know,
The nearest neighbor of the creeping vines;
Without fixed root he cannot trust like thee
The rain will know the appointed hour to fall,
But fears lest sun or shower may hurtful be,
And would delay or speed them with his call;
Nor trust like thee when wintry winds blow cold,
Whose shrinking form the withered leaves enfold.

15, A Belated Violet by Oliver Herford

Very dark the autumn sky,
Dark the clouds that hurried by;
Very rough the autumn breeze
Shouting rudely to the trees.

Listening, frightened, pale, and cold,
Through the withered leaves and mould
Peered a violet all in dread—
“Where, oh, where is spring?” she said.

Sighed the trees, “Poor little thing!
She may call in vain for spring.”
And the grasses whispered low,
“We must never let her know.”

“What ’s this whispering?” roared the breeze;
“Hush! a violet,” sobbed the trees,
“Thinks it ’s spring,—poor child, we fear
She will die if she should hear!”

Softly stole the wind away,
Tenderly he murmured, “Stay!”
To a late thrush on the wing,
“Stay with her one day and sing!”

Sang the thrush so sweet and clear
That the sun came out to hear,
And, in answer to her song,
Beamed on violet all day long;

And the last leaves here and there
Fluttered with a spring-like air.
Then the violet raised her head,—
“Spring has come at last!” she said.

Happy dreams had violet
All that night—but happier yet,
When the dawn came dark with snow,
Violet never woke to know.

16, The Violet by Jane Taylor

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 colours 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 shade.

Then let me to the valley go,
This pretty flower to see;
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.

17, Roses & Violets by Star Gazer

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I don’t know what I would do without you.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
None of their beauty compares to you

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I can see a future and it involves you

Roses are red
Violets are blue
So far every last part has the word you

Roses are red
Violets are blue
That’s because I’m always thinking about you

18, Autumn Violets by Classics

Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring:
Or if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves,
Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves,
Their own, and others dropped down withering;
For violets suit when home birds build and sing,
Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves;
Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves,
But when the green world buds to blossoming.
Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,
Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope:
Or if a later sadder love be born,
Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,
But give itself, nor plead for answering truth–
A grateful Ruth tho’ gleaning scanty corn.

19, Path of Violets by CA Guilfoyle

In sunshine or in shadow how rich the loamy soil
light of earth, dream of rebirth greening
lilac buds and bluebells ring
magenta hills, aubretia spring
of burning fire
A mossy path of violets, soft my feet to wander
muscari blue the garden dew
birds to drink of leafy puddles
bluest skies go grey, drifts so swift a rain cloud by
to water quick the daffodil, silk umbrellas yellow
and comes alas the greening grass
robins hopping, weaving
Spring unfurls in flowery births
tiny violets upon the earth

20, Domesticated Violets by Randy Ray Price

Roses are red.
Violets are, violet .
But blue is what they said
And I just don’t know why yet.

Roses are red.
Violets are still violet.
And don’t ever forget
That I love your, eye lid.

Roses are still red.
Oops I guess violets ARE blue 😉
(Insert something cheesy)
Cuz baby I LOVE you!

21, Violets Blooming by Ap

Love love love
Ours is like withered flowers
Because whenever I see my dark circles
Or freshly painted bruises spreading over my canvas
I see violets blooming
Love love love
Ours is like licking flames
Because whenever I look into your eyes
Or feel the warmth of your touch leaving burn marks
I remember who painted me
Love is not *love at all
And I guess I’m beginning to see
That violet is your favorite color
And I am your masterpiece

22, Violets are Blue by Quentin Briscoe

Roses are Red
and I am Blue
Violets are Violet idiots
and Violence is subtle
until you turn Blue
or black
but I was born like that
and he was born with a turbin
and she was born with a veil
And then there were those born pale
…But what ever the matter they were born
believing that roses are red and violets are blue
not that I should love you too..
But just my brothers and sisters…
not anything different..
and I should beat a Violet till it turns Blue…
Becasue thats what it should do…
No matter if im black, Pale, muslim or hindu
I will beat a Violet blue…
And Keep all roses red
Cuz I still haven’t Got to I love you!!

23, The Violet by Valerie

So delicate and fair a little bloom!
O tiny flower and your sweet perfume

You bloom so modestly in leafy beds,
So humble that you hardly lift your head.

The other flowers,
none more fairer than thee

Are all dressed up for all the world to see.
With colors fair they face the light of day;
But you, with all your beauty, hideaway.

But she, with loving fingers, sought to find
Your tiny bloom,
and thought your flower fine.

And so, at last, when came her final rest,
You, little flower, nestled on her breast.

And that is why my
fingers search your bed
To seek your fragrant, tiny purple head;
And wonder if its dew or tears that wet
Your lovely petals, little violet.

24, The Violet and the Crocus by Lenore Hetrick

“Is it time to awaken?” the violet asked.
The crocus peeped at the sky.
“Not yet, dear flower!” she whispered low.
“Some snowflakes are going by!”

“Is it time to grow?” The violet questioned
After a day had passed.
“Not yet,”said the crocus, peeping again.
“I still feel winter’s blast.”

The third time the violet opened her eyes,
She heard a loud, harsh sound,
It shook all the earth, the trees and the hills,
And was felt way down in the ground.

“Is it time, friend crocus?” the violet asked,
And the crocus lifted her head.
“Oh, no!” said she. “There’s a wind like a lion!
It’s best that we stay in bed!”

The violet opened her big, blue eyes,
“A wind like a lion, you say?
Then March is here! Wild, stormy March!
And it’s time to be on our way!”

25, The Violet by Sir Walter Scott

The violet in her greenwood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazel mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

Though fair her gems of azure hue,
Beneath the dew-drop’s weight reclining;
I’ve seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through wat’ry lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
No longer in my false love’s eye
Remain’d the tear of parting sorrow.

26, The Violet by Anonymous

This little flower, so sweet and wild,
Is nature’s fairest, simplest child,
With whispers soft, May’s earliest breeze,
Seeks for it, under budding trees,

By sunny banks and waters cool,
The gentlest bud in beauty’s school.
On wings of love the evening flew,
To bathe it in her crystal dew.

Gray morning tripped on silver feet,
Its earliest blush and smile to meet,
And noon, bright noon, his clear rays shed
In dazzling lustre round its head.

It is the little maiden’s pet,
It is the poet’s favorite;
To name it, is to touch a spring,
Which moves each tender bosom string

To music, such as childhood hears,
And love recalls in after years.
‘Tis like the bleating of the lambs,
Or mellower voices of their dams;

‘Tis like the tinkling heifer’s bell,
Or noon-day horn’s clear distant swell,
Or like the cooing of a dove,
Or like the gentle voice of love;

27, The Violet by William Wordsworth

A violet by
a mossy stone
half hidden
from the eye
fair as a star
when only one
is shining
in the sky

28, The Violet by Anonymous

A violet in the meadow grew
Bowed to earth and hd from view
was a deor sweet violet
Along come a young shepherdess
Free of heart and light of step
Come by come by
Singing through the flowers

OH Thought the wolet were I
If only for one while
Noure’s sweetest flower yet
Ti my beloved picked me. pressed
Me faining ding to her breas
So I might le
There for but an hourl

Alol lol The girl went past
Urecen the violet in the grass
Wos crushed poor violet
dropped and ded and yet it cried
And though I de yet still de
By her by her
By her feet possing by

29, Sea Violet by H. D.

The white violet
is scented on its stalk,
the sea-violet
fragile as agate,
lies fronting all the wind
among the torn shells
on the sand-bank.

The greater blue violets
flutter on the hill,
but who would change for these
who would change for these
one root of the white sort?

Violet
your grasp is frail
on the edge of the sand-hill,
but you catch the light
frost, a star edges with its fire.

30, Endless Lavender Fields of Violet by Dream Frog

deep purple for miles
beneath a ceaseless blue sky
sweet sensual scents

31, Shrinking Violet by Ambientmadness

when the sun screams,
the violet is choked
while others feed from
their natural mother.
when the fluffy clouds
piss their dirty water,
the violet despairs
while others sip it
through a bent straw.
when bleary eyeballs look,
the violet is imprinted
while others take pride
in being noticed.
when there is darkness,
the violet wakes
while the others cow
from it

and the violet shrunk
no more…

32, A Song for Violet by Anna Takoda

Little fingers, a shade darker at the tip
A mark of life, a mark of life departing

Sweet purple lips
Only young enough to be the colour rose

But Violet is her name
So Violet she shall be

In life, and in death
A flower as sensitive as can be

Eyes closed
No tears tonight

33, Violets by Donny O’Rourke

Lingering like the last of the light
in the Schlossgarten at Erlangen
suddenly seeing a bed of them by the fountain
I remembered how much I love
violets – their intensity – that
wilful way they have of being
neither purple nor blue but
violet. Loveable too that a bunch
of them can also be a posy
and whilst bouquet sounds a bit grand,
just one in a tooth mug in any hotel
can make a bare room an arbour,
a bower, a dell.

34, Who Hath Despised The Day Of Small Things by Cristina (Georgina) Rossetti

As violets so be I recluse and sweet,
Cheerful as daisies unaccounted rare,
Still sunward-gazing from a lowly seat,
Still sweetening wintry air.
While half-awakened Spring lags incomplete,
While lofty forest trees tower bleak and bare,
Daisies and violets own remotest heat
And bloom and make them fair.

35, A Dirge (August 26, 1852) by Cristina (Georgina) Rossetti

She was as sweet as violets in the Spring
As fair as any rose in Summertime,
But frail are roses in their prime
And violets in their blossoming.
Even so was she,
And now she lies,
The earth upon her fast-closed eyes,
Dead in the darkness silently.
The sweet Spring violets never bud again,
The roses bloom and perish in a morn;
They see no second quickening lying lorn;
Their beauty dies as though in vain.
Must she die so
For evermore,
Cold as the sand upon the shore,
As passionless for joy and woe?

Her heart shall say “It is enough,
For Thou art with me still,
It is enough, O Lord my God
Thine only blessed Will?”
Then shall the fountain sing
And flow to rest,
Clear as the sun-track
To the purple West.

36, Autumn Violets (before 1896) by Cristina (Georgina) Rossetti

Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring,
Of ir these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves
Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves,
Their own, and others’ dropped down withering;
For violets suit when home birds build and sing,
Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves;
Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves,
But when the green world buds to blossoming.
Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,
Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope;
Or if a later sadder love be born,
Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,
But give itself, nor plead for answering truth–
A grateful Ruth tho’ gleaning scanty corn.

37, From Sing Song, a Nursery Rhyme Book (before 1873) by Cristina (Georgina) Rossetti

O wind, where have you been,
That you blow so sweet?
Among the violets
Which blossom at your feet.
The honeysuckle waits
For Summer and for heat
But violets in the chilly Spring
Make the turf so sweet.

38, The Violet by Johann Wolfgang Goethe

A violet in the meadow grew,
blushing quietly, quite unknown;
a pretty little violet.

A young shepherdess drew near,
with tripping foot and merry heart,
she came alone,
singing through the meadow.

If only, the violet mused, I were
the finest flower int he world,
just for a little while,
until the dear girl picked me
and pressed me to her heart ’til I died,
if only, if only for a quarter of an hour!

Alas! The girl approached
and paid no heed to the violet;
she trod it underfoot.

It sank and died, yet it rejoiced:
if I must die, at least I die through her,
through her, here, ‘neath her feet.

Poor violet!
It was a pretty violet!

39, Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania some time of the night,
Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight:
And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

40, Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare

If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! I had a dying fall:
O’it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour!

41, Violets by Gert Strydom

In the kitchen’s window
your potted violets are flowering again,
they are feathering with miniature florets
on the luxurious green leaves,

some are the colour of amethyst,
others are bluer in their purple
and others more of a purple-pink,
while some are almost like ink

and like you they are both beautiful and distinct.

42, Like A Violet (Novelinee) by Gert Strydom

Like a violet her eyes did lovely shine
she was fragile, forward and somewhat sweet,
I did not know if she was really mine
and there was something great when we did meet.
As if we were living for the minute,
as if all, everything that was before
was lost and she was extremely cute
and at time her I did really adore,
but with time she was gone, was no more.

43, The Purple Tomorrows Of Our Violet Yesterdays by Robert Rorabeck

Reindeer underneath the windmills
Drinking at the faces who exist for awhile in the valleys
As yellow as the reflections of the sun
In the wheels of bicycles: and anyway, this is how it goes
In the yellow flowers of arcades:
Or this is how it doesn’t have to be, buried up to our necks
In the gold mines of her wrists
While the hummingbirds pirouette at her water fountains
Waiting for her just desserts
While she is too busy giving me hickeys, and waiting for her
Lunch: Camarones del Diablas look so good on her lips
And I swear to her that she is a red riding hood that
Never has to go home to
Her husband, and her children: she can bring them over anyways
And teach me how to do laundry and cook enchiladas
And we can look out together as the school buses cross the
Street before the paper thin headstone of the pet cemeteries
In their imitative estuaries:
And then we can turn inwards anyways and kiss each others’
Lips and believe in the purple tomorrows of our violet yesterdays.

44, Love Is Violet by Saiom Shriver

Lust is scarlet
Lust can violate.
Love is Spirit.
Love is violet.

45, Carnations And Violets by Peter S. Quinn

Carnations and violets
are my flowers to you,
I have no regrets
only my love that’s true.
We are still like one
the beauty of its heart beat,
even though you aregone
and I search an empty street.

Love is for evermore
though lost times are breezy,
I can be though of it sure
loving you was easy.
For you gave so much too
all that you did stand for,
I am always with you
in finding ways and be sure.

Bougets from my heart
in everything we were,
tomorrow comes in a new start
bu in my heart you still are here.
Nothing ever goes away
if it once was true,
it just meets a diffrent day
and becomes me and you.

46, Leaves Of Violets by Saiom Shriver

Green curled leaves
cup the dew
to grow purple violets
which are their due.
as hearts which
flow with
charity
are clothed in
purple aura clarity

47, Moonlight And Violets by Patti Masterman

Though moonlight and dreams may be
Our starlit route to ecstasy,
A touch holds more than worlds can show,
In planetary light’s day-glow;
And soft words said at evening-fall
May hold a captive heart in thrall.

I long to take you all the way,
Somewhere even words can’t say;
Somewhere stars won’t disappear,
Whether it be far or near-
And timid Violet’s in the shade
Will know that they by love were made.

48, My Sweet Violets by Marilyn Lott

They are coming up in my gardens
Why, just like wild flowers they grow
A delicious early spring splash of color
That’s why I really love them so

They are pale as a spring violet can be
A lavender color they are
Tiny with a fragrance so special
The best early flower by far

They always infuse with my landscape
I love the perfect way that they blend
With other flowers like blue Forget-me-not’s
And when finished tiny seeds they send

I do so enjoy my flowers in spring
I even pick them for a wonderful bouquet
I wish you could visit my gardens as well
I’d serve you sweet tea without any delay!

49, Autumn Violets by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring:
Of if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves,
Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves,
Their own, and others dropped down withering;
For violets suit when home birds build and sing,
Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves;
Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves,
But when the green world buds to blossoming.
Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,
Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope:
Or if a later sadder love be born,
Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,
But give itself, nor plead for answering truth—
A grateful Ruth tho’ gleaning scanty corn.

50, Violets by Ruby Archer

Violets, I hold you
Sweet within my hand.
Whisper what he told you
In the sunset land.
Violets, my spirit
Feels what you intend.
In my soul I hear it:
“Think upon thy friend.”

→ Read more: Famous Poems About Tulips or The Famous Poems About Flowers