Spring
Now the bright crocus flames, and now
The slim narcissus takes the rain,
And, straying o'er the mountain's brow,
The daffodilies bud again.
The thousand blossoms wax and wane
On wold, and heath, and fragrant bough,
But fairer than the flowers art thou,
Than any growth of hill or plain.
Ye gardens, cast your leafy crown,
That my Love's feet may tread it down,
Like lilies on the lilies set:
My Love, whose lips are softer far
Than drowsy poppy petals are,
And sweeter than the violet!
poem by Andrew Lang
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River Lilies
Saw a boy three lilies white,
Lilies in the river,
Half heart-open to the light,
Full of golden arrows bright,
Each a silver quiver.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Said the boy, “I’ll pluck you there,
Lilies in the river!”
Said the lilies, “If you dare
You shall drown, or homeward fare
Dripping and a-shiver!”
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Wilful still the boy would clasp
Lilies in the river;
Tumbled in ere he could grasp,
Scrambled out with puff and gasp,
Plucked no lilies ever.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Thou Art a Flower
Thou art a flower, dear heart, a fragrant flower
And I, the wandering, hair-clad, amorous bee.
’Mongst all the regal beauties of the bower,
I seek but thee.
I feel the ivory of thy petals fair
Brush lightly on my belly as I woo
And I would sting thee, if I did but dare,
So sweet are you.
I suck the honey from your dewy bowl
And drunken mad, with wild, delirious bliss,
Within your cup, I yield to you my soul
And drink your kiss.
Oh! petals sweet, close in and crush me dead.
I am consumed in flames of passion’s fire.
What else is left, when this dear hour hath fled.
But dead desire?
The juice of poppy flowers and breath of rose,
Wistaria’s purple, blood-flecked lilies white,
I pilfer and when, soft, your petals close,
When comes the night.
I pour the passions of the world of flowers
Deep in beyond the lips of quivering red.
Your life is mine to craze the trembling hours,
All else is dead.
poem by from The Point of View
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sweeter Than Wine
The Almond flowers,
With buds and blossoms from my lover;
How sweet is the entrance of your tent?
Braided chains of pure gold,
The apple of your sweetest love;
With pure incense of sweet spices.
On one branch,
On one's love,
With buds and blossoms from her taste;
An Olive Oil from her light to share with you like,
That of her skills and abilities.
Your sweet love crowns the night,
In the midst of her mountains with love;
This is my deisre towards her.
Her love is sweeter than wine,
See how her breasts feed among the Lilies;
Of the Almond flowers,
Refresh me with your sweet apples my love;
You are so beautiful among women my love,
Your sweet aroma of the Almond flowers fills my soul.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Linda And Friends' Hampton Beach Gardens
Crimson,
Sun yellow,
Fairy rose pink,
Blue, Paris lavender
And soft white -
Colors are afloat!
Some rippling flowers
At Hampton Beach
Bloom in roadside island gardens
And in their own rowboats.
The flowers
And more blossoms, too,
Welcome sandy feet, sea gulls,
And sailing butterflies alike.
The beach blossoms
Hold pure sunshine,
Delighting all ages,
From the very old
To little tykes.
How the bright petals shine
During a magical day
By the seashore
In the summery sun!
It is fun to see the beach gardens' treasures
Blooming
Around magnificent Happy Hampton!
Once the spots where the pretty flowers
Now catch the sunbeams
Were just plain dirt
Or bare, hard concrete.
Today the shimmery flowers,
Bringing joyful tidings,
Have our families and friends
To greet.
poem by Gayle Sweeney
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The Babies of Walloon
He was lengthsman on the railway, and his station scarce deserved
That “pre-eminence in sorrow” of the Majesty he served,
But as dear to him and precious were the gifts reclaimed so soon—
Were the workman’s little daughters who were buried near Walloon.
Speak their names in tones that linger, just as though you held them dear;
There are eyes to which the mention of those names will bring a tear.
Little Kate and Bridget, straying in an autumn afternoon,
Were attracted by the lilies in the water of Walloon.
All is dark to us. The angels sing perhaps in Paradise
Of the younger sister’s danger, and the elder’s sacrifice;
But the facts were hidden from us, when the soft light from the moon
Glistened on the water-lilies o’er the Babies at Walloon.
Ah! the children love the lilies, while we elders are inclined
To the flowers that have poison for the body and the mind.
Better for the “strongly human” to have done with life as soon,
Better perish for a lily like the Babies of Walloon.
For they gather flowers early on the river far away,
Where the everlasting lilies keep their purity for aye,
And while summer brings our lilies to the run and the lagoon
May our children keep the legend of the Babies of Walloon.
poem by Henry Lawson
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In the spirit of Rumi - 45 - The Lily
In the gardens of the world
as the world and seasons turn,
in a thousand thousand gardens,
in a million fields and valleys,
the lilies grow.
the lilies of the field – proud
yet modest in the grass, proud
that Jesus spoke of them;
lilies of the valley – proud
yet modest as their scent
sings and calls, amongst all
the heady scents of nature,
the scent so close
to the wild cyclamen
in the hillside grass;
the regal lily, sharing with the rose
the Caliph’s and the Sultan’s gardens,
listening all their lives as lilies do
to the plashing fountain in the fragrant courtyard;
laughing quietly as the kohl-eyed beauties
round the Caliph in the evening garden
vie behind their silken veils
with perfumes mixed and strange..
each day, one lily in the bed
reaches its perfection, glows,
exults in its day of unique status,
as every lily has its day..
What honour then, can God bestow
upon his creatures, so magnificent,
so thunderous in their praise of Him
for those with ears to hear?
His most precious gift, which even men
rarely earn with all a lifetime serving Him –
a glimpse of His perfection..
And the regal lily, full of the humility
of the lily, Mary’s flower,
bows its slender neck
yields all its beauty, bowing low,
folds its curled petals, as Mary
submitting to the will of God;
and we, walking in the garden,
glance and say ‘Behold,
that lily which, but yesterday, was perfect,
is fading now already…’ and in our heart
passes, is discarded, the evening chill
of knowing ourselves to be that lily..
pride, humility, the gifted glimpse of God’s perfection,
barely acknowledged as they pass..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Amor Umbratilis
A gift of Silence, sweet!
Who may not ever hear:
To lay down at your unobservant feet,
Is all the gift I bear.
I have no songs to sing,
That you should heed or know:
I have no lilies, in full hands, to fling
Across the path you go.
I cast my flowers away,
Blossoms unmeet for you!
The garland I have gathered in my day:
My rosemary and rue.
I watch you pass and pass,
Serene and cold: I lay
My lips upon your trodden, daisied grass,
And turn my life away.
Yea, for I cast you, sweet!
This one gift, you shall take:
Like ointment, on your unobservant feet,
My silence, for your sake.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-60
Asiatic lily(Asiatic hybrid lily
Lilium x asiatica)
Deceptive your buds far farther
Like water lily as they look
In closer sight but true lilies
Divine really anywhere nearer
Ofcourse fragrant little mild
Some scentless albeit colourful
Leaves strappy on stems upright
Blossoms big and small and hybrid
Hybridized just to feast the eyes
Nay, the soul red, purple and white
Pink of blossoms bigger Oriental
In closer sight divine all lilies
Hybridized colourful to look better
Nay, sweeter gold, orange and white
Pink of blossoms smaller Asiatic
Divine naturally really so closer
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Her Face And Brow
Ah, help me! but her face and brow
Are lovelier than lilies are
Beneath the light of moon and star
That smile as they are smiling now--
White lilies in a pallid swoon
Of sweetest white beneath the moon--
White lilies, in a flood of bright
Pure lucidness of liquid light
Cascading down some plenilune,
When all the azure overhead
Blooms like a dazzling daisy-bed.--
So luminous her face and brow,
The luster of their glory, shed
In memory, even, blinds me now.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Next Year's Spring
THE bed of flowers
Loosens amain,
The beauteous snowdrops
Droop o'er the plain.
The crocus opens
Its glowing bud,
Like emeralds others,
Others, like blood.
With saucy gesture
Primroses flare,
And roguish violets,
Hidden with care;
And whatsoever
There stirs and strives,
The Spring's contented,
If works and thrives.
'Mongst all the blossoms
That fairest are,
My sweetheart's sweetness
Is sweetest far;
Upon me ever
Her glances light,
My song they waken,
My words make bright,
An ever open
And blooming mind,
In sport, unsullied,
In earnest, kind.
Though roses and lilies
By Summer are brought,
Against my sweetheart
Prevails he nought.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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May Song
How fair doth Nature
Appear again!
How bright the sunbeams!
How smiles the plain!
The flow'rs are bursting
From ev'ry bough,
And thousand voices
Each bush yields now.
And joy and gladness
Fill ev'ry breast!
Oh earth!--oh sunlight!
Oh rapture blest!
Oh love! oh loved one!
As golden bright,
As clouds of morning
On yonder height!
Thou blessest gladly
The smiling field,--
The world in fragrant
Vapour conceal'd.
Oh maiden, maiden,
How love I thee!
Thine eye, how gleams it!
How lov'st thou me!
The blithe lark loveth
Sweet song and air,
The morning flow'ret
Heav'n's incense fair,
As I now love thee
With fond desire,
For thou dost give me
Youth, joy, and fire,
For new-born dances
And minstrelsy.
Be ever happy,
As thou lov'st me!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Water Lilies
I gathered them—the lilies pure and pale,
The golden-hearted lilies, virgin fair,
And in a vase of crystal, placed them where
Their perfumes might unceasingly exhale.
High in my lonely tent above the swale,
Above the shimmering mere and blossoms there,
I solaced with their sweetness my despair,
And fed with dews their beauteous petals frail.
But when the aspens felt the evening breeze,
And shadows 'gan across the lake to creep,
When hermit-thrushes to the Oreades
Sang vesper orisons, from cloisters deep,—
My lilies, lulled by native sympathies,
Upfolded their white leaves and fell asleep.
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Wind
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the winter stark,
Oh the level dark,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the mystery
Of the blasted tree
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the owlet's croon
To the haggard moon,
To the waning moon,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the fleshless stare,
Oh the windy hair,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the cold sigh,
Oh the hollow cry,
The lean and hollow cry,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the white sight,
Oh the shuddering night,
The shivering shuddering night,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Alone
THE lilies clustered fair and tall;
I stood outside the garden wall;
I saw her light robe glimmering through
The fragrant evening's dusk and dew.
She stopped above the lilies pale;
Up the clear east the moon did sail;
I saw her bend her lovely head
O'er her rich roses blushing red.
Her slender hand the flowers caressed,
Her touch the unconscious blossoms blessed;
The rose against her perfumed palm
Leaned its soft cheek in blissful calm.
I would have given my soul to be
That rose she touched so tenderly!
I stood alone, outside the gate,
And knew that life was desolate.
poem by Celia Thaxter
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Narcissus
Since the great, glad greeting of dawn from the eastern hills
Triumphant ran with a shout to the woods below,
With the song in his ears of the clearly clamoring rills
He has lain, like a man of snow,
Slender and straight as the joyous immortals are made,
Born of woman, but born with the grace of a god.
Unheeded airs, caressingly cool, have played
With his hair, and the nymphs have trod
Close to his side, and have kissed him, waiting to flee—
But Narcissus, what recketh he?
In the pool where the lithe fish flashes and slips
From his covert to snap at the careless, fluttering flies,
Narcissus has seen the curve of his drooping lips,
And, like mirrored miniature heavens, his shining eyes.
And a flush like a dew-dipped rose has dyed the pool,
He has laid his cheek to the ripples cool;
Brow touches brow, lips lips, and his eyes of violet roam
Down through the crystal depths. In the darkening dome
The stars shine forth from their faint, far ways,
Trimming their lamps; and, from the purple haze,
The moon, cloud-veiled, her circle just complete,
Wan as a travail-spent mother, plants her feet
On the carpeted hills, and fearful of change
Seeks her reflected face in the sea’s southward range—
But Narcissus, what recketh he?
Narcissus, Narcissus, where is thy boyish bloom,
Thy long, slim form that lay beside the pool,
And the lips cold smiling to their smiling image cool?
Narcissus!
Only a strange, indefinite perfume,
And a dim white spot in the night when soft airs blow;
A flower, bending, bending low
Its petals and its yellow heart to where the waters flow;
Its scent the winds have borne
Through the pearl-gray east to the arms of morn,
To faint and to die in the wakening light—
But of time’s swift flight, the dawn, and the noon, and the night,
The sun’s gold glory, the moon’s white mystery,
Narcissus, what recketh he?
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1896)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Daily, Daily, Sing The Praises
Daily, daily, sing the praises
Of the city God hath made;
In the beauteous fields of Eden
Its foundation stones are laid.
Refrain
O that I had wings of angels,
Here to spread and heavenward fly!
I would seek the gates of Zion,
Far beyond the starry sky.
All the walls of that dear city
Are of bright and burnished gold;
It is matchless in its beauty,
And its treasures are untold.
Refrain
In the midst of that dear city
Christ is reigning on His seat,
And the angels swing their censers
In a ring about His feet.
Refrain
From the throne a river issues,
Clear as crystal, passing bright,
And it traverses the city
Like a sudden beam of light.
Refrain
There the forests ever blossom,
Like our orchards here in May;
There the gardens never wither,
But eternally are gay.
Refrain
There the meadows green and dewy
Shine with lilies wondrous fair;
Thousand, thousand, are the colors
Of the waving flowers there.
Refrain
There the forests ever blossom,
Like our orchards here in May;
There the gardens never wither,
But eternally are gay.
Refrain
There the wind is sweetly fragrant,
And is laden with the song
Of the seraphs, and the elders,
And the great redeemèd throng.
Refrain
O I would my ears were open
Here to catch that happy strain!
O I would my eyes some vision
Of that Eden would attain!
Refrain
poem by Sabine Baring-Gould
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Choriambics
Love, what ailed thee to leave life that was made lovely, we thought, with love?
What sweet visions of sleep lured thee away, down from the light above?
What strange faces of dreams, voices that called, hands that were raised to wave,
Lured or led thee, alas, out of the sun, down to the sunless grave?
Ah, thy luminous eyes! once was their light fed with the fire of day;
Now their shadowy lids cover them close, hush them and hide away.
Ah, thy snow-coloured hands! once were they chains, mighty to bind me fast;
Now no blood in them burns, mindless of love, senseless of passion past.
Ah, thy beautiful hair! so was it once braided for me, for me;
Now for death is it crowned, only for death, lover and lord of thee.
Sweet, the kisses of death set on thy lips, colder are they than mine;
Colder surely than past kisses that love poured for thy lips as wine.
Lov'st thou death? is his face fairer than love's, brighter to look upon?
Seest thou light in his eyes, light by which love's pales and is overshone?
Lo the roses of death, grey as the dust, chiller of leaf than snow!
Why let fall from thy hand love's that were thine, roses that loved thee so?
Large red lilies of love, sceptral and tall, lovely for eyes to see;
Thornless blossom of love, full of the sun, fruits that were reared for thee.
Now death's poppies alone circle thy hair, girdle thy breasts as white;
Bloodless blossoms of death, leaves that have sprung never against the light.
Nay then, sleep if thou wilt; love is content; what should he do to weep?
Sweet was love to thee once; now in thine eyes sweeter than love is sleep.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Song. Hope
And said I that all hope was fled,
That sorrow and despair were mine,
That each enthusiast wish was dead,
Had sank beneath pale Misery’s shrine.--
Seest thou the sunbeam's yellow glow,
That robes with liquid streams of light;
Yon distant Mountain's craggy brow.
And shows the rocks so fair,--so bright--
Tis thus sweet expectation’s ray,
In softer view shows distant hours,
And portrays each succeeding day,
As dressed in fairer, brighter flowers,--
The vermeil tinted flowers that blossom;
Are frozen but to bud anew,
Then sweet deceiver calm my bosom,
Although thy visions be not true,--
Yet true they are,—and I’ll believe,
Thy whisperings soft of love and peace,
God never made thee to deceive,
'Tis sin that bade thy empire cease.
Yet though despair my life should gloom,
Though horror should around me close,
With those I love, beyond the tomb,
Hope shows a balm for all my woes.
AUGUST, 1810.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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The Flowers I See
The belladonna in the valley, so magical in purple, so deadly within me, the nightshade thou possess, and in thee my life fade. The amaryllis in mine soul, thy scarlet leaf haunts me, for in thy scarlet stained grief, mine love and life I see. The blossom canna even thee! with lips stained with vice, from the vice of pleasure you chose, to create the beauty of thine treasure for our souls to greed. The begonia of beauty delicious thy beauty leave, and like all beauty thou deceive, the love pregnant in me. The oriental poppy, thy aroma helps me to sleep and dream of colors as vivid as thee and as unreal as thy petals be, unreal my dreams of thee. O fairy blossoms, in pink and white wing, inside thy petals the butterfly dwells and the spring ferries sing. Ah! there is the rose, with all its beauty in she which grows, wins the hearts of all whom know, that in the rose our love to doth grow. Still all these flowers look pale next to she, the panther in brown, with eyes of ebony, whom stares at me and sees flowers in my gleaming eye and preys on me before I die.
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Vers Demode
For one, the amaryllis and the rose;
The poppy, sweet as never lilies are;
The ripen'd vine, that beckons as it blows;
The dancing star.
For one, the trodden rosemary and rue;
The bowl, dipt ever in the purple stream
And, for the other one, a fairer due-
Sleep, and no dream.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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