To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.
quote by Emily Dickinson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
To make a prairie (1755)
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee.
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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C[l]over Girl after Emily Dickinson - To make a prairie it takes a clover
To make true change it takes a Biden and one B.
One Biden and a B.
And reverie.
But reverie alone won't do
'til Palin's blue.
To make an omelette it takes some milk and one egg.
Some milk and an egg
and gas or light.
With reverie alone make do
if we're not few.
To stake a claim takes some land and one hope.
Some land and a hope,
called reverie.
The reverie alone won't do
with carats few.
To bake a cake it takes...
'and so ad infinitum'
Author notes
C[l]over Girl = Cove Over Cover Lover Clover Girl
[c] Jonathan Robin parody Emily Dickinson first stanza written 1 November 2008 subsequent stanzas added 2 November 2008
robi3_1400
ROBIN Jonathan 1947_20xx robi3_1400_robi1_0000 PWX_JXX Clover Girl_To make true change it takes a Biden and a B
n.b. cove in English may also mean Man
Clover and Bee
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.
DICKINSON Emily 1830_1886 dick2_0017_dick2_0000 PXX_NXX To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee_To make a prairie
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Four Leaf Clover
I wish I could find
a four-leaf clover
to give me a bit of luck.
Therefore, off I trotted
to have a look.
I found a lot of clover,
but not one
four leafed clover there.
(7 July 2007)
poem by David Harris
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Clover
Maurice white & larry dunn
Gonna send a message how I feel
To the lady thats for real
Done thought it over
Feels real fine
Her name is clover in my mind
Gotta send this message on my mind
Cant shake this feelin
Aint hard to find,
Oh clover, mystery come to my resque
Make sense of me
Oh think, I love her...
In my hearts...
A clover
song performed by by Earth Wind And Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Luck
I sought a four-leaved clover,—
The grass was gemmed with dew,—
I searched the meadow over
To find a four-leaved clover;
I was a lucky rover,—
You sought the charm-grass, too,
And seeking luck and clover
I found it—finding you.
poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from The New England Magazine / Volume 15, Issue 3 (1893)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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What a miserable thing life is: you're living in clover, only the clover isn't good enough.
quote by Bertolt Brecht
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Three Plum Buns
Three plum buns
To eat here at the stile
In the clover meadow,
For we have walked a mile.
One for you, and one for me,
And one left over:
Give it to the boy who shouts
To scare sheep from the clover.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The Search
We would lie in the grass and clover
and search for a four-leafed one.
And just the searching together,
even if we found none
would bring me joy and not despair
and never would I complain.
For the four-leafed clover that was absent
would have us try again.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Clover
Some sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose,
And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime
throws
In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays
Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days;
But what is the lily and all of the rest
Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest
That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew
Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?
I never set eyes on a clover-field now,
Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow,
But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane
As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again;
And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream,
Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam
With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love
Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above.
And so I love clover--it seems like a part
Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart;
And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow
And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now;
And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die,
To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye,
And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom
While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Clover, Daisies and Grass
Clover daisies and grass
spread out pink, white and greens
on the carpet in front of me.
A thousand heads of clover
and daisies dotted on the green
as far as the eyes can see.
No sea of turmoil there
as each has its own plot there.
(7 July 2007)
poem by David Harris
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Frustration Again
I am lost in the woods
and have found my way
to lie among clover
and spend my day.
The sun overhead is brilliant
and there's not a care in sight.
I will stay in this place gladly
until the approach of night.
I will take a clover home,
one with petals four.
And if it brings me luck
again I will search for more.
But I can't remember
where I was?
And the only thing that
forgetfulness does
is frustrate me today.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Superman
crucified
for eternal sins
re-invent myself
shape my alter skin
try to break the mold
severed hold
first you find your threshold bevels
breathing out your toxic levels
?lung so rope is hangin
now we know what's comin
oh superman
where have you gone
with a little more time
and a six leaf clover
just a little more head
to make you bolder
just a little more sound
been playing tricks you know
she got sucked so dry
we destroy ourselves
to rise again
open up yourself
like a jesus son
only way out is through
way past you
first you get to human levels
run right through your bullshit pedals
lung so rope is hanging
now we know what's coming
oh superman
where have you gone
with a little more time
and a six leaf clover
just a little more head
to make you bolder
just a little more sound
just a little more sound
been playing tricks you know
he got sucked so dry and you oughta know how to lose
lung so rope is hanging
oh superman
what have you done
with a little more time
and a six leaf clover
just a little more head
to make you bolder
just a little more sound
just a little more sound
song performed by by Bush from Golden State
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scythe Song
MOWERS, weary and brown, and blithe,
What is the word methinks ye know,
Endless over-word that the Scythe
Sings to the blades of the grass below?
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,
Something, still, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,
Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?
Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying,
Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying;
Hush, they sing to the clover deep!
Hush—’t is the lullaby Time is singing—
Hush, and heed not, for all things pass;
Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging
Over the clover, over the grass!
poem by Andrew Lang
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There was an Old Person of Dover,
Who rushed through a field of blue Clover;
But some very large bees,
Stung his nose and his knees,
So he very soon went back to Dover.
quote by by Edward Lear
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When the Shy Star Goes Forth in Heaven
When the shy star goes forth in heaven
All maidenly, disconsolate,
Hear you amid the drowsy even
One who is singing by your gate.
His song is softer than the dew
And he is come to visit you.
O bend no more in revery
When he at eventide is calling.
Nor muse: Who may this singer be
Whose song about my heart is falling?
Know you by this, the lover's chant,
'Tis I that am your visitant.
poem by James Joyce
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Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower
134
Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower,
But I could never sell—
If you would like to borrow,
Until the Daffodil
Unties her yellow Bonnet
Beneath the village door,
Until the Bees, from Clover rows
Their Hock, and Sherry, draw,
Why, I will lend until just then,
But not an hour more!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Brown Leaves
The passage of dead leaves in spring
Is like the aged vanishing.
Amid the bustle and delight
Of beauty thronging sound and sight,
Their lengthened course we hardly know
Nor mark their exit when they go.
Yet through the burst of budding green
And blossoms rich with varied sheen
A brown leaf sometimes flutters by
And breeds a sombre revery.
poem by Gamaliel Bradford
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Kindness to Insects
I saw a Melancholy Wasp
Upon a Purple Clover Knosp,
Who wept, 'The Poets do me Wrong,
Excluding me from Noble Song-
Though Pure am I and Wholly Crimeless-
Because, they say, my Name is Rhymeless!
Oh, had I but been born a Bee,
With Heaps of Words to Rhyme with me,
I should not want for Panegyrics
In Sonnets, Epics, Odes and Lyrics!
Will no one free me from the Curse
That bars my Race from Lofty Verse?'
'My Friend, that Little Thing I'll care for
At once,' said I- and that is wherefore
So tenderly I set that Wasp
Upon a Purple Clover Knosp.
poem by Arthur Guiterman
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A Personal Account Of Bees
Scholarly bees who attend college and graduate with high marks
go to dewy clover fields wet enough to prevent a scalded mouth,
dull bees are sent to Cleveland, to my house, and others nearby
where the gardens are limp green, plants like washed dollar bills
passed from hand to hand by men who work on production lines.
The local bees carouse, turnout pockets to purchase a good time,
sprawl, their legs open like girls taking sun the first day of summer.
I never see them eat from their tiny black lunch boxes, they hum
like choir boys, overshoot runways that are like ours, but round.
The bees are colorblind, deaf and they do not like blue Windex.
Arriving home exhausted they play card games before quarreling
or canning honey preserves, later they slip down striped underpants
and rest placing bald heads, shiny as the day they were born,
on paws tangled with paws of brothers who do not seem to mind,
they sleep no longer than it takes for a rain dropp to fall from heaven.
poem by Bernard Henrie
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Hamlet Micure
In a lingering fever many visions come to you:
I was in the little house again
With its great yard of clover
Running down to the board-fence,
Shadowed by the oak tree,
Where we children had our swing.
Yet the little house was a manor hall
Set in a lawn, and by the lawn was the sea.
I was in the room where little Paul
Strangled from diphtheria,
But yet it was not this room --
It was a sunny verandah enclosed
With mullioned windows,
And in a chair sat a man in a dark cloak,
With a face like Euripides.
He had come to visit me, or I had gone to visit him --
I could not tell.
We could hear the beat of the sea, the clover nodded
Under a summer wind, and little Paul came
With clover blossoms to the window and smiled.
Then I said: "What is 'divine despair,' Alfred?"
"Have you read 'Tears, Idle Tears'?" he asked.
"Yes, but you do not there express divine despair."
"My poor friend," he answered, "that was why the despair
Was divine."
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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