When the olive tree blooms during April, olives are harvested with barrels, when it blossoms in June, they are harvested in handfuls.
Related quotes
If the olive trees blossom in April, you'll have enough to collect them with barrels; if they bud in May, you'll have enough to fill a small measure; but if as late as June, you'll only be collecting handfuls.
Olives harvested with a heavy staff will produce poor tasting oil.
The risky job
Barley sown,
Barley is harvested.
Poppy sown,
Poppy is harvested.
A child sown,
Harvest is unpredictable,
The most risky job.
27.03.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Harvest Of Souls
The times demand that all awaken;
From a very long n' troubled sleep
Souls' harvested after tree is shaken,
Then mankind takes a quantum-leap
poem by Ray Lucero
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Olive Of Peace
Now sheath'd is the Sword that was wild as the blast:
The Tempest of Slaughter and Terror is past;
Old ALBION her Neighbour all smilingly hails—
For the OLIVE of PEACE blooms again in our Vales!
Beam on the day,
Thou Olive gay:
'Matchless is he
Who planted thee;
And mayst thou like him immortal be!'
Divinest of Olives, O, never was seen
A bloom so enchanting, a verdure so green!
Sweet, sweet do thy Beauties entwiningly smile
In the Vine-tree of France and the Oak of our Isle!
Beam on the day,
Thou Olive gay, &c.
Long, long did thy envied Exotic delay,
'Till the voice of HUMANITY charm'd thee away;
And here, ever here mayst thou bloom in repose,
As firm as our Oak-tree, and gay as the Rose!
Bloom on the day,
Thou Olive gay, &c.
Let ALCIDES his Poplar of Majesty prize,
And VENUS her Myrtle exalt to the skies:
FRANCE and ALBION excell all the Gods of old Greece—
For they crown their wise heads with the OLIVE of PEACE!
Bloom on the day,
Thou Olive gay, &c.
The delicate Lily may gracefully mount,
And the Pink all her charms with the Rainbow recount;
Green, green is the Olive on ALBION'S brow,
And the Lily and Pink to the Olive must bow!
Bloom on the day,
Thou Olive gay, &c.
Thou Olive divine, may Eternity's Sun
Beam warm where thy roots thro' the ages shall run;
The Dew of Affection 'light soft where they twine,
And the Love of an Universe stamp thee divine!
Bloom on the day,
Thou Olive gay:
'Matchless was he
Who planted thee;
And mayst thou like him immortal be!'
poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Us
I was wrapped in black
fur and white fur and
you undid me and then
you placed me in gold light
and then you crowned me,
while snow fell outside
the door in diagonal darts.
While a ten-inch snow
came down like stars
in small calcium fragments,
we were in our own bodies
(that room that will bury us)
and you were in my body
(that room that will outlive us)
and at first I rubbed your
feet dry with a towel
because I was your slave
and then you called me princess.
Princess!
Oh then
I stood up in my gold skin
and I beat down the psalms
and I beat down the clothes
and you undid the bridle
and you undid the reins
and I undid the buttons,
the bones, the confusions,
the New England postcards,
the January ten o'clock night,
and we rose up like wheat,
acre after acre of gold,
and we harvested,
we harvested.
Anonymous submission.
poem by Anne Sexton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Fortunately, something always remains to be harvested. So let us not be idle.
quote by Gustav Mahler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
There are a hundred owners besides you until the wheat is harvested.
Knowledge is like a garden: if it is not cultivated, it cannot be harvested.
Harvested Farm (the raven and I)
Harvested farm
just watching from afar
the raven and I.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Olive At Midnight
An olive at midnight
Green
shiny
globe
of
black
The size of a dirty workman's thumb
They (the olives) tumble towards me
Down hills and in still slick lakes of olive oil
I meet my dark shining olive
By suprise
It's midnight in the olive grove
My ciabatta catches him
spinning on the tastebuds together
My olive and I
Two star crossed lovers
One black
On green
Obscene nights of perpetual fulfillment
What a scene! my olive and me
My olive my heart
Oh my darling lovely one
Olive at midnight
At last
you have come to me
And together we will may a delightful
pair
my lips quake at the thought of you
quivering as you slither in a plate of oil
towards them
Olive at midnight
You have possessed me
I am yours
But too many press in
Only one is chosen
It is dark I cannot see you
Oh olive
Are you green?
Or black?
Does it matter I am not prejudice
My dear dear one
At midnight you thunder towards me
My heart is an earthquake
My brain a melting pot offondant cheese
I slice my ciabatta
A tiny onion a tomato pressed between
And you oh olive my love
I am done
Please leave
I am not hungry
It is past midnight
I must sleep
poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sow for annual harvest
The goodwill invested for a long term
Often goes un-harvested or stillborn.
You don’t know what the time has in store.
Harvest it then and there; that only invest.
29.11.2002
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Crime of Humanity
The vegatarian says we should not eat animals,
Because we apparently cause them pain,
Does not the lettuce feel pain when we pick it,
Do not the trees fell pain when the fruit is harvested,
When we say we kill the bull in a pain free way,
The vegitarian says- How do you know its pain free?
Tell me vegitarian,
Should we not eat at all,
Have we the right to consume anything?
Tree killer,
Blood spiller,
I am a murderer.
poem by Aamir Zain
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Underneath The Jacaranda Tree
On a windy day, I saw her standing there,
Underneath the jacaranda tree.
With purple blossoms in her hair,
Amidst a purple sea.
The purple reflected in her eyes,
As the clouds went rolling by.
I swear I could hear the angels cries,
From heaven's throne on high.
Underneath the jacaranda tree,
A little fountain ran.
With crystal waters running pure and free,
The purest in the land.
In the fountain she dipped her hand,
In crystal waters cold and fine.
And let water drip on the sugar white sands,
Long ago when she was mine.
The jacaranda tree withstood the test of time,
It has grown old along with me.
The purple blossoms still wax divine,
They rain down falling free.
And the wind blew through the boughs,
Of the jacaranda tree.
Raining purple like it still does now,
But she is gone from me.
When the jacaranda tree blooms in the spring,
And purple blossoms fill the sky.
I hear her and the angels when they sing,
Somewhere in heaven, way up high.
poem by Juan Olivarez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Long Been Lost
If a healing was done...
Wounds would mend.
An aid would not be needed.
And the funding for it would end.
A reaping sown would not be harvested.
The need for it would be useless.
And other industries connected,
Would then have to begin.
And those seasons of creativity,
Have long been lost.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The fertile land
Prosperity is a barren land,
Where love and empathy will not grow.
Poverty is the fertile land,
Only where safety is harvested.
03.04.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Love’s Harvest
Nay, do not quarrel with the seasons, dear,
Nor make an enemy of friendly Time.
The fruit and foliage of the failing year
Rival the buds and blossoms of its prime.
Is not the harvest moon as round and bright
As that to which the nightingales did sing?
And thou, that call'st thyself my satellite,
Wilt seem in Autumn all thou art in Spring.
When steadfast sunshine follows fitful rain,
And gleams the sickle where once passed the plough,
Since tender green hath grown to mellow grain,
Love then will gather what it scattereth now,
And, like contented reaper, rest its head
Upon the sheaves itself hath harvested.
poem by Alfred Austin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Unpretentious Are Those Gifted
That well fed the crops they harvested.
The animals grazed...
To healthy weights,
When sent off to market.
Then to slaughter to feed,
And line thick pockets.
A parching drought began.
The rains no longer came nonstopping.
Like a clock timed with the seasons.
Drying up the well and thinning pockets.
The famine of egos searched to quench thirsts.
So unpretentious are those gifted.
Who pray for solutions.
And Mother Nature hears them first.
Once again...
That well fed the crops they harvested.
The animals grazed...
To healthy weights,
When sent off to market.
Then to slaughter to feed,
And line grateful pockets...
Not as thick as selfishly once wished,
But enriched by the experience.
Once again...
The need came from the feeding,
Provided by the well.
The famine of egos searched to quench thirsts.
Unaddressed and thoughtlessly over rehearsed.
But...
So unpretentious are those gifted.
Who pray for solutions.
And Mother Nature hears them first.
Mother Nature knows when,
And how...
A quenching of a thirst nourishes.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
April's Away.
All too soon the countryside,
Now fresh greened and sprouting more
Than spring, looks out for wider
Room, shakes it's newborn blossoms
Then ushers April to the door.
And April's away.
No longer teenage, Flora's
Grown maturer now, slightly
Deeper hued, flowers adorning
Every late spring bough, while
April, already pale, turns white,
Then April's away.
Heated by more ardent sun,
Hedgerows must have stronger feed.
Palid from work early done
April leaves, - makes way for May
To ensure Flora has her needs
Now April's away.