I value my garden more for being full of blackbirds than of cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for their songs.
quote by Joseph Addison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
The Bird's Bargain
'O spare my cherries in the net,'
Brother Benignus prayed; 'and I
Summer and winter, shine and wet,
Will pile the blackbirds' table high.'
'O spare my youngling peas,' he prayed,
'That for the Abbot's table be;
And every blackbird shall be fed;
Yea, they shall have their fill,' said he.
His prayer, his vow, the blackbirds heard,
And spared his shining garden-plot.
In abstinence went every bird,
All the old thieving ways forgot.
He kept his promise to his friends,
And daily set them finest fare
Of corn and meal and manchet-ends,
With marrowy bones for winter bare.
Brother Benignus died in grace:
The brethren keep his trust, and feed
The blackbirds in this pleasant place,
Purged, as dear heaven, from strife and greed.
The blackbirds sing the whole year long,
Here where they keep their promise given,
And do the mellowing fruit no wrong.
Brother Benignus smiles in heaven.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Sonnet 82: Nymph Of The Garden
Nymph of the garden where all beauties be,
Beauties which do in excellency pass
His who till death look'd in a wat'ry glass,
Or hers, whom naked the Trojan boy did see;
Sweet garden nymph, which keeps the cherry tree
Whose fruit doth far th'Hesperian taste surpass;
Most sweet-fair, most fair-sweet, do not alas,
From coming near those cherries banish me:
For though full of desire, empty of wit,
Admitted late by your best-graced Grace,
I caught at one of them a hungry bit,
Pardon that fault. Once more grant me the place
And I do swear e'en by the same delight,
I will but kiss, I never more will bite.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Hopefully, if not it's not working right. I'm like a navigator and I try to encourage our collaboration and find the best way that will produce fruit. I like fruit. I like cherries, I like bananas.
quote by Jim Jarmusch
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thirteen Blackbirds Looking at a Man
I
It is calm.
It is as though
we lived in a garden
that had not yet arrived
at the knowledge of
good and evil.
But there is a man in it.
II
There will be
rain falling vertically
from an indifferent
sky. There will stare out
from behind its
bars the face of the man
who is not enjoying it.
III
Nothing higher
than a blackberry
bush. As the sun comes up
fresh, what is the darkness
stretching from horizon
to horizon? It is the shadow
here of the forked man.
IV
We have eaten
the blackberries and spat out
the seeds, but they lie
glittering like the eyes of a man.
V
After we have stopped
singing, the garden is disturbed
by echoes. It is
the man whistling, expecting
everything to come to him.
VI
We wipe our beaks
on the branches
wasting the dawn's
jewellery to get rid
of the taste of a man.
VII
Nevertheless,
which is not the case
with a man, our
bills give us no trouble.
VIII
Who said the
number was unlucky?
It was a man, who,
trying to pass us,
had his licence endorsed
thirteen times.
IX
In the cool
of the day the garden
seems given over
to blackbirds. Yet
we know also that somewhere
there is a man in hiding.
X
To us there are
eggs and there are
blackbirds. But there is the man,
too, trying without feathers
to incubate a solution.
XI
We spread our
wings, reticulating
our air space. A man stands
under us and worries
at his ability to do the same.
XII
When night comes
like a visitor
from outer space
we stop our ears
lest we should hear tell
of the man in the moon.
XIII
Summer is
at an end. The migrants
depart. When they return
in spring to the garden,
will there be a man among them?
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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Lament for the Poets: 1916
I heard the Poor Old Woman say:
"At break of day the fowler came,
And took my blackbirds from their songs
Who loved me well thro' shame and blame
No more from lovely distances
Their songs shall bless me mile by mile,
Nor to white Ashbourne call me down
To wear my crown another while.
With bended flowers the angels mark
For the skylark the place they lie,
From there its little family
Shall dip their wings first in the sky.
And when the first suprise of flight
Sweet songs excite, from the far dawn
Shall there come blackbirds loud with love,
Sweet echoesmof the singers gone.
But in the lovely hush of eve
Weeping I grieve the silent bills"
I heard the Poor Old Woman say
In Derry of the little hills.
poem by Francis Ledwidge
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Our Marriage Is Our Garden
Our marriage is our garden.
I want our garden to be beautiful.
With lush green grass,
With fragrant and colourful flowers.
A place of solace.
A place of peace.
A place of love.
Our garden must be watered.
Not watered too much.
As that would saturate the ground.
Not watered too little.
As that would leave the plants wilted.
And our grass barren.
But regularly.
So the flowers can stand tall
It must be weeded.
It must be maintained.
It must be loved.
We will plant seeds in our garden.
For new life makes any garden more beautiful and diverse.
We can harvest the fruit trees, but our harvest is limited
If we eat all the fruit too quick,
Then we must wait until the next harvest to eat again.
If we don't pick the fruit when it is right, it will spoil.
Our harvest is for our family.
If I eat all the fruit myself, then they will starve.
If we eat too much we will get sick.
If we eat what we are supposed to, then we will be healthy.
If we do not monitor the fruit,
Then someone might eat more than their share.
If we do not stand guard in our garden,
A thief might come into the garden to steal our fruit.
The fruit for our family.
For their garden must be barren and their crops have spoiled.
Our garden will stand the test of all seasons.
As all gardens do.
Another garden will also experience the same seasons.
Just at different times.
All gardens face rain.
All gardens get sun.
It is the rain that nourishes the garden and helps it's life to grow.
But our garden must be maintained regularly.
Only artificial things require no maintenance.
The artificial has no life.
It is fake, it is plastic.
Our garden needs to be real.
So life may grow and continue to grow.
So one day our children can enjoy a garden of their own.
For them and their children.
May their garden be overflowing with life and love.
And be the most beautiful garden in the world.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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While Lounging In A Chair
While lounging in a chair, I looked up at the ceiling
Where, teasing my imagination,
A circle hangs above the quiet lamp,
And spins just like a ghostly shadow.
Within the flicker there's a trace of autumn sunset:
As if, above the rooftop and the garden,
Unable to fly off, afraid to land,
Dark flocks of blackbirds circle. . .
No, it's not wings I hear, but hooves at the front gate!
I hear the trembling hands . . .
How chill the pallor of a lovely face!
How bitter parting's whisper! . .
Lost and in silence, I survey the distant road
Beyond the dimming garden,-
While the impatient flock of blackbirds,
Unsheltered, circles still.
poem by Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet
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What's Red
Red is a strong color
Red is a Strawberry
A very juicy red fruit
Red is an apple
Another delicious fruit
Red is a fruit
those small little cherries
Red is a light
The light that means stop when you get to it
Red is a firetruck
The truck that fire people use when theres a fire
Red, Red, Red
What a color.
poem by Favie Erase
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My heart is heavy
My heart is heavy with many a song
Like ripe fruit bearing down the tree,
But I can never give you one --
My songs do not belong to me.
Yet in the evening, in the dusk
When moths go to and fro,
In the gray hour if the fruit has fallen,
Take it, no one will know.
poem by Sara Teasdale
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Summer
The year rejoice with grass
that sprouts out bright green everywhere
and leaves covering
plants and trees.
Life blooms in fruit
that dazzles red, yellow and green on branches
and insects fly swept away,
while the birds sing joyful songs
and the bright white hot sun
hangs high up in the sky.
Lord, give that the fruit coming out of my words
and deeds are not out of conceit
and centred around the I and self, but also stand as a sign
of Your infusion and flower full-blown and great.
poem by Gert Strydom
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There Is A Garden In Her Face
There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heav'nly paradise is that place
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
There cherries grow which none may buy,
Till 'Cherry ripe' themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow;
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
Till 'Cherry ripe' themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till 'Cherry ripe' themselves do cry.
poem by Thomas Campion
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There is a Garden in Her Face
There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heav'nly paradise is that place
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
There cherries grow which none may buy
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds filled with snow;
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt, with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.
poem by Thomas Champion (1619)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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In The Yard Behind The Church
In the yard, behind the church
Where butterflies and blackbirds search
For a safe place to rest the night away
We will go down to the brook
And sit upon the overlook
Then forget about the troubles of the day
We will walk among the graves of
Men long dead with Presidents' names and
Listen to the water flow softly by
I will kiss you on the lips now
And as the sky grows dark we'll strip down
And let the water wash away all lies
In the yard, behind the church
Where butterflies and blackbirds perch
On gravestones as the garden's growing dim
We will lay down on the ground
And put our cheeks against the dirt down
Where it no longer matters where you've been
song performed by by Eels
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gulf Coast Highway
(nanci griffith)
Gulf coast highway, he worked the rails
He worked the rice fields with their cold dark wells
He worked the oil rigs in the gulf of mexico
The only thing weve owned is this old house here by the road
And when he dies he says hell catch some blackbirds wing
And we will fly away to heaven
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring
She walked through springtime when I was home
The days were sweet, our nights were warm
The seasons changed, the jobs would come
The flowers fade, and this old house felt so alone
When the work took me away
And when she dies she says shell catch some blackbirds wing
And she will fly away to heaven
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring
Highway 90, the jobs are gone
We kept our garden, we set the sun
This is the only place on earth blue bonnets grow
And once a year they come and go
At this old house here by the road
And when we die we say well catch some blackbirds wing
And we will fly away to heaven
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring
Yes when we die we say well catch some blackbirds wing
And we will fly away together
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunny On the Other Side
Let not a rainy day,
cast a shadow upon your garden.
Let not your worries be over your head.
Let not others downfall be your upbringing.
Let not anger define your character.
Let not your garden be full of weeds.
Let not greed entangle like vines.
Let not life loose it's meaning.
Let not love be lost to lust.
Let not your passions fade away.
Let not your book have few pages.
Let your book become a novel, and in that novel, control the outcome.
Let rainy days inflict the greatest growth.
Let your garden become a jungle.
Keep your gate open to the seeds of life,
and inside those gates, dreams will bare the sweetest fruit.
Let only the sun,
cast a shadow upon your garden.
poem by Jacob Gifford
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Matters Of Observation
it is me lying on a bench
reading a book halfway through
the pages
for a break i close the book
earmark a page
and look at the jack fruit treetop
just beside the house
i am on the second floor
and no one is in the house
my wife is visiting a friend
who just arrived from the U.S.
there is no other creature except
a white butterfly hovering
on a sampaguita flower
in the small garden
the tree has more leaves
but it is not bearing any fruit
at all
i am reminded of those years
joys forgotten and now i am reading
a book about some shadows
of doubts
there is this systems that works
of patronage
refunds
i am situated in a plateau
and my Jesuit professor who dropped by
last night with a
'how are you? ' through the YM
must have understood that an
introvert like me has no
place outside
the books
i understand and frankly
i do not have to tell him how i feel about it
inside the pages
the stories are too many
my hero is dead.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Garden of Choice
Two in the Garden of Eden
who had everything to lose
the bounty of all creation
save one fruit forbidden to choose
Their fates, and our fate as well,
were resting in their own hand
in what splendor would we dwell
had they honored that sole command
Two in the Garden of Eden
each charged with that sacred choice
Either one could have chosen
to disregard the serpent's voice
Yet one, then the other, failed
abdicating Eden for one bite
their naked wickedness unveiled
lost forever Garden's delight
Two in the Garden of Eden
did they think but once or twice
before initiating rejection
of God's bounty beyond price
Two in the Garden of Eden
which one should bear the blame
for being the greater heathen
which one would we dare name
Two in the Garden of Eden
but either one of the two
might have differently chosen
passing blessings as their due
Two of us in that Garden
with same choice to make today
would we not likewise give in
as well throwing all away
Though we do not live in Eden
we inherited much the remain
Do we cherish our earthly garden
or pollute every inch of terrain
We too may opt for an Eden
in our hands we hold Earth's fate
Will we empower serpents again
or tend our garden before too late?
poem by Mary Havran
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cherry-Ripe
THERE is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow:
There cherries grow which none may buy
Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow;
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy
Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
poem by Thomas Campion
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Forbidden Fruit
Sometimes fruit
is forbidden
one must
look
away.
Like Eve in the
garden
forbidden
fruit
on
display.
Little did she
know
the price
she
would pay.
Forbidden fruit
forever
sometimes
dreams
go
astray.
poem by Heather Burns
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Frankly, Mr. Shankly
Frankly, mr. shankly, this position i've held
It pays my way, and it corrodes my soul
I want to leave, you will not miss me
I want to go down in musical history
Frankly, mr. shankly, i'm a sickening wreck
I've got the 21st century breathing down my neck
I must move fast, you understand me
I want to go down in celluloid history, mr. shankly
Fame, fame, fatal fame
It can play hideous tricks on the brain
But still i'd rather be famous
Than righteous or holy, any day
Any day, any day
But sometimes i'd feel more fulfilled
Making christmas cards with the mentally ill
I want to live and i want to love
I want to catch something that i might be ashamed of
Frankly, mr. shankly, this position i've held
It pays my way and it corrodes my soul
Oh, i didn't realise that you wrote poetry
I didn't realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry, mr. shankly
Frankly, mr. shankly, since you ask
You are a flatulent pain in the arse
I do not mean to be so rude
Still, i must speak frankly, mr. shankly
Oh, give us your money !
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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