Perhaps the old monks were right when they tried to root love out; perhaps the poets are right when they try to water it. It is a blood-red flower, with the color of sin; but there is always the scent of a god about it.Olive Schreiner
- The summer day was spoiled with fitful storm;
At night the wind died and the soft rain dropped;
With lulling murmur, and the air was warm,
And all the tumult and the trouble stopped.
- The Nestling Swallows, in Drift-Weed (1878), p. 20.
- Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget
That sunrise never failed us yet.
- The Sunrise never failed us yet, in Drift-Weed (1878), p. 64.
- Already the dandelions
Are changed into vanishing ghosts.
- Already, in Drift-Weed (1878), p. 103.
- Across the narrow beach we flit,
One little sand-piper and I;
- The Sand-piper (1862).