A Red Flower
Your lips are like a southern lily red,
Wet with the soft rain-kisses of the night,
In which the brown bee buries deep its head,
When still the dawn's a silver sea of light.
Your lips betray the secret of your soul,
The dark delicious essence that is you,
A mystery of life, the flaming goal
I seek through mazy pathways strange and new.
Your lips are the red symbol of a dream,
What visions of warm lilies they impart,
That line the green bank of a fair blue stream,
With butterflies and bees close to each heart!
Brown bees that murmur sounds of music rare,
That softly fall upon the langourous breeze,
Wafting them gently on the quiet air
Among untended avenues of trees.
O were I hovering, a bee, to probe
Deep down within your scented heart, fair flower,
Enfolded by your soft vermilion robe,
Amorous of sweets, for but one perfect hour!
poem by Claude McKay
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Related quotes
In The Gardens Of Shushan
BE pitiful ! Her lips have touched this cool
Clear stream that sets the long green leaves astir.
The very doves that dream beside the pool
Sang their soft notes to her.
For her these doors that claim the amorous south,
Bound in red bronze and stayed with cedar-wood.
And here the bees sought honey from her mouth,
So like a flower she stood.
For her the globed pomegranates grew, and all
Sweet savoury fruits rose perfect from their flower.
Here has her soul known silence and the fall
Of each enchanted hour.
Under her feet all beauty was laid low,
In her deep eyes all beauty was made clear.
When the king called her through the evening glow,
'O Vashti, I am here !'
Still the sweet wells return to me her face,
Still her lost name on every wind is blown.
The shadows and the silence of this place
Are hers alone.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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New Life, New Love
The breezes blow on the river below,
And the fleecy clouds float high,
And I mark how the dark green gum trees match
The bright blue dome of the sky.
The rain has been, and the grass is green
Where the slopes were bare and brown,
And I see the things that I used to see
In the days ere my head went down.
I have found a light in my long dark night,
Brighter than stars or moon;
I have lost the fear of the sunset drear,
And the sadness of afternoon.
Here let us stand while I hold your hand,
Where the light’s on your golden head—
Oh! I feel the thrill that I used to feel
In the days ere my heart was dead.
The storm’s gone by, but my lips are dry
And the old wrong rankles yet—
Sweetheart or wife, I must take new life
From your red lips warm and wet!
So let it be, you may cling to me,
There is nothing on earth to dread,
For I’ll be the man that I used to be
In the days ere my heart was dead!
poem by Henry Lawson
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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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Spring's Accomplishments
Spring brings with it a warm, gentle breeze
Along with the trees sprouting their baby soft leaves
Gently tapping the ground are the soft showers
Bringing around soft, springtime flowers
Now here they come, the butterflies and the bees
Attracted to the gardens and newly awakened trees
The trees emanate such a calming scent of sap
And the birds nestle down for a peaceful nap
As Easter approaches, the sunshine gets stronger
And as spring continues, the days get longer
The spring goes into a deep slumber
And who takes over then? It's summer!
poem by Caroline Bulleck
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Bridal Eve
GOOD-NIGHT, my Heart, my Heart, good-night--
Oh, good and dear and fair,
With lips of life and eyes of light
And roses in your hair.
To-morrow brings the other crown,
The orange blossoms, Sweet,
And then the rose will be cast down
With lilies at your feet.
But in your soul a garden stands
Where fair the white rose blows--
God, teach my foolish clumsy hands
The way to tend my rose.
That in the white-rose garden still
The lily may bloom fair
God help my heart and soul and will
To keep the lily there.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Lost Embassy
THE lilies lean to the white, white rose,
The sweet limes send to the blossomed trees,
Soft kisses borne by the golden bees--
And all the world is alive, awake,
And glad to the heart for the summer's sake.
From her tower window the Princess leant,
Where the white light butterflies came and went;
She dropped soft kisses by twos and threes:
'White butterflies mine, will you carry these
To my Prince in prison? for they, who knows,
May break the spell that has held him close
And wake him and win him to stand up free
And laugh--in the sun--with me!'
White lilies, gold in the golden sun,
White Princess, gold in your golden gown--
Far off lies the sad, enchanted town!
Bright wings, light wings, white wings that tire,
Though they carry the flower of the heart's desire--
Will you trust to these, too white, too slight
To bring back the fruit of heart's delight?
All round and about the spell-bound town
The ways are dusty, the woods are brown;
There are no green coverts, no welcoming flowers
For little weary butterfly wings,
No dew, no lilies, no glad live things.
'Neath the sky of steel and the brazen sun
White wings, kiss-laden, dropped one by one:
By twos and threes they dropped by the way,
And only one reached the grim, gray tower
Where, witched from his kingdom, the poor Prince lay--
One poor tired butterfly, smirched and gray
With the dust of the town and the weary way,
And it lit on the Prince's hand and died.
'Bright wings, light wings, white wings,' he cried
'You, only you, might have lived and borne
My prayer to my love in her tower forlorn,
And brought back the kiss that could set me free--
She might have broken the spell that lies
On my foolish heart and my foolish eyes--
But no live butterflies come my way!'
The winds are cold and the skies are gray,
And all the lilies died yesterday;
The Princess leans from her steel-wrought tower
To watch for her butterflies hour by hour.
Poor little Princess, you watch in vain!
Butterflies die where the green wood browns,
And kisses sent to enchanted towns
Never come home again.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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On The Fourth Day Of March
The pleasant aroma of the peppercorn trees
That come wafting to me in the evening breeze
And on the nearby pond the shy moorhen call
On the fourth day of March and the southern Fall.
A white backed magpie pipes on a nearby gum tree
A bird one so often does hear and does see
And though early Autumn the deciduous trees in the park of the town
Their leaves still quite green and not showing any brown.
The weather quite cool compared to yesterday
But the temperatures perfect for me anyway
Today a cool high of twenty two degrees
From the recent warm weather we do need some ease.
The brown and bare paddocks could do with some rain
And the farmers are feeling the financial strain
Of months of dry weather they feel burdened by care
And their financial cross for them heavy to bear.
There is not one rain cloud in the clear blue sky
And the thistledown flying in the breeze through the sky
And the dark moorhen call in the brown pond nearby
And the paddocks are looking so bare, brown and dry.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sweet honey-sucking bees
Sweet honey-sucking bees, why do you still
surfeit on roses, pinks and violets,
as if the choicest nectar lay in them
wherewith you store your curious cabinets?
Ah, make your flight to Melisuavia's lips.
There may you revel in ambrosian cheer,
where smiling roses and sweet lilies sit,
Keeping their springtide graces all the year.
[Part 2:
Yet, sweet, take heed, all sweets are hard to get:
Sting not her soft lips, O, beware of that,
for if one flaming dart come from her eye,
was never dart so sharp, ah, then you die.
]
poem by John Wilbye
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The Ass
I woke and rose and slipt away
To the heathery hills in the morning grey.
In a field where the dew lay cold and deep
I met an ass, new-roused from sleep.
I stroked his nose and I tickled his ears,
And spoke soft words to quiet his fears.
His eyes stared into the eyes of me
And he kissed my hands of his courtesy.
“O big, brown brother out of the waste,
How do thistles for breakfast taste?
“And do you rejoice in the dawn divine
With a heart that is glad no less than mine?
“For, brother, the depth of your gentle eyes
Is strange and mystic as the skies:
“What are the thoughts that grope behind,
Down in the mist of a donkey mind?
“Can it be true, as the wise men tell,
That you are a mask of God as well,
“And, as in us, so in you no less
Speaks the eternal Loveliness,
“And words of the lips that all things know
Among the thoughts of a donkey go?
“However it be, O four-foot brother,
Fair to-day is the earth, our mother.
“God send you peace and delight thereof,
And all green meat of the waste you love,
“And guard you well from violent men
Who’d put you back in the shafts again.”
But the ass had far too wise a head
To answer one of the things I said,
So he twitched his fair ears up and down
And turned to nuzzle his shoulder brown.
poem by Clive Staples Lewis
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With Your Soft Lips
With your soft lips on my cheek
I am caught in moments that draw out,
I am melting in every beautiful gaze,
with eyes flaming and touching
you let my time linger in moments
and near to each other in trust
you voice sounds like birdsong
and we are both affectionate;
with your soft lips.
Sometimes you look scared,
as if I am going grab or catch you
and at other times you understand,
when we kiss each other pleasantly
without getting our feelings in restraint;
with your soft lips.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Perfect Present
SO I have kissed you! And this hour is mine.
Its light along the level future lasts,
It crowns a drab eternity of Pasts!
Here soul and soul have crossed the border-line
Of self, and merged. No years can e'er untwine
This hour from us! What though to-morrow casts
The memory out, and your cold glance contrasts
With this day's rich red lips, need I repine?
No. I have kissed you! And the brief warm flower
Born of our lips perfumes eternity.
From the long loneliness that silently
Stretches behind, before, I am content
To cull this blossom of one perfect hour—
To snatch one star from Time's deep firmament!
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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I'Need a kiss
Sunday is a holiday then we are going to that place.
That silent place full of silence, we are there standing,
we saw the so many coloured greenish leaves big trees.
so many birds, and butterflies decorating the blue sky
Then a butterfly dancing in the sky.
Together we Keep a released longing.
sitting near in the shallow river.
We see fishes in the depth so calm
We look up at the rainbow in the sky.
So many days you have never kiss me.
I'need a kiss, here in the silent place near in the river.
Trees, butterflies, fishes, please we are given a chance.to make a perfect kisses.
Here in the silent place.
My lips are longing after so many days you have never kiss me.
See my eyes, do you know my yearning?
Oh love***kiss me softly now*
everything will be quiet.
Just you and me enjoyed***kiss***
then my heart full of desire, you will know everything.
Your kiss fly with me.
Your kiss will stun me.
Your kiss will softly me soft.
Your kiss is sweet hearted.
Your kiss is a pray.
Your kiss is wanted
your kiss so bright
your kiss is everything.
Flower of Love
The perfume of your body dulls my sense.
I want nor wine nor weed; your breath alone
Suffices. In this moment rare and tense
I worship at your breast. The flower is blown,
The saffron petals tempt my amorous mouth,
The yellow heart is radiant now with dew
Soft-scented, redolent of my loved South;
O flower of love! I give myself to you.
Uncovered on your couch of figured green,
Here let us linger indivisible.
The portals of your sanctuary unseen
Receive my offering, yielding unto me.
Oh, with our love the night is warm and deep!
The air is sweet, my flower, and sweet the flute
Whose music lulls our burning brain to sleep,
While we lie loving, passionate and mute.
poem by Claude McKay
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Cry like a Bees...
buzzzz…buzzzz…
a soft pity voice
hear near the sleeping
Daffodils, that waits no break in the
nectar of the heart the
Bees call, Oh! come
serenity of the night as my tears
fall, lead me to the dazzling
Butterfly to fly up in the
wondering sky, comfort my hour and
keep me astray in the
paradise I stay
wet scatter off as teardrop
kept each leaf, and the whole ground
wait forging a deep wish to calm the
crying flee of a Dear friend
privy intend to hold the sweet tears,
and nothing lift,
for the option becomes the
final judgment of tears,
even pain comes
with awesome wealth of distress, surely
the day ended with gain
of lost memory to lend me
a little home to cry
nay! remember my past, for the Bees
likes to sing in
a silent of hovering fast and the
flower blooms blend
every teardropp fall in the ground,
it recall
hear little heart, as the Bees cried
in the flying play, the
flower is just waiting to comfort
the graceful pain …..
poem by Antonio Liao
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The Lily Bed
His cedar paddle, scented, red,
He thrust down through the lily bed;
Cloaked in a golden pause he lay,
Locked in the arms of the placid bay.
Trembled alone his bark canoe
As shocks of bursting lilies flew
Thro' the still crystal of the tide,
And smote the frail boat's birchen side;
Or, when beside the sedges thin
Rose the sharp silver of a fin;
Or when, a wizard swift and cold,
A dragon-fly beat on in gold
And jewels all the widening rings
Of waters singing to his wings;
Or, like a winged and burning soul,
Dropped from the gloom an oriole
On the cool wave, as to the balm
Of the Great Spirit's open palm
The freed soul flies. And silence clung
To the still hours, as tendrilts hung,
In darkness carven, from the trees,
Sedge-buried to their burly knees.
Stillness sat in his lodge of leaves;
Clung golden shadows to its eaves,
And on its cone-speced floor, like maize,
Red-ripe, fell sheaves of knotted rays.
The wood, a proud and crested brave;
Bead-bright, a maiden, stood the wave.
And he had spoke his soul of love
With voice of eagle and of dove.
Of loud, strong pines his tongue was made;
His lips, soft blossoms in the shade,
That kissed her silver lips--hers cool
As lilies on his inmost pool--
Till now he stood, in triumph's rest,
His image painted in her breast.
One isle 'tween blue and blue did melt,--
A bead of wampum from the belt
Of Manitou--a purple rise
On the far shore heaved to the skies.
His cedar paddle, scented, red,
He drew up from the lily bed;
All lily-locked, all lily-locked,
His light bark in the blossoms rocked.
Their cool lips round the sharp prow sang,
Their soft clasp to the frail sides sprang,
With breast and lip they wove a bar.
Stole from her lodge the Evening Star;
With golden hand she grasped the mane
Of a red cloud on her azure plain.
It by the peaked, red sunset flew;
Cool winds from its bright nostrils blew.
They swayed the high, dark trees,and low
Swept the locked lilies to and fro.
With cedar paddle, scented, red,
He pushed out from the lily bed.
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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In October
Along the waste, a great way off, the pines,
Like tall slim priests of storm, stand up and bar
The low long strip of dolorous red that lines
The under west, where wet winds moan afar.
The cornfields all are brown, and brown the meadows
With the blown leaves' wind-heaped traceries,
And the brown thistle stems that cast no shadows,
And bear no bloom for bees.
As slowly earthward leaf by red leaf slips,
The sad leaves rustle in chill misery,
A soft strange inner sound of pain-crazed lips,
That move and murmur incoherently;
As if all leaves, that yet have breath, were sighing,
With pale hushed throats, for death is at the door,
So many low soft masses for the dying
Sweet leaves that live no more.
Here I will sit upon this naked stone,
Draw my coat closer with my numbed hands,
And hear the ferns sigh, and the wet woods moan,
And send my heart out to the ashen lands;
And I will ask myself what golden madness,
What balmed breaths of dreamland spicery,
What visions of soft laughter and light sadness
Were sweet last month to me.
The dry dead leaves flit by with thin weird tunes,
Like failing murmurs of some conquered creed,
Graven in mystic markings with strange runes,
That none but stars and biting winds may read;
Here I will wait a little; I am weary,
Not torn with pain of any lurid hue,
But only still and very gray and dreary,
Sweet sombre lands, like you.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Betrayal at the Worst of Times Needs No Remorse!
A flock of sparrows were twittering
in the branches of the Neem trees.
The cold breeze from the rain-fed tank
was rustling the leaves, embracing
and solacing my body bereft of sleep.
The waves from the watery expanse,
dashing and breaking on the bank
were making regular clapping sounds.
The green paddy crops in the vast stretch of fields
were waving and dancing in the blowing wind.
The bees were straining droning sounds
and the butterflies were sailing over me.
The flowers of wild plants on the slopes of the bank
were flaming in the hot summer.
I was lying on the bank in the shades of the trees,
with my mind roaming around her
and my eyes staring at the sky above.
For betraying me at the worst of times,
she conveyed to me her words of regret,
and wanted to see me once,
to weep out her sinking grief.
But I didn't get a chance to look at that rueful face
and from my heart I couldn't also erase it out.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Thorgerda
LO, what a golden day it is!
The glad sun rives the sapphire deeps
Down to the dim pearl-floor’d abyss
Where, cold in death, my lover sleeps;
Crowns with soft fire his sea-drench’d hair,
Kisses with gold his lips death-pale,
Lets down from heaven a golden stair,
Whose steps methinks his soul doth scale.
This is my treasure. White and sweet,
He lies beneath my ardent eyne,
With heart that nevermore shall beat,
Nor lips press softly against mine.
How like a dream it seems to me,
The time when hand in hand we went
By hill and valley, I and he,
Lost in a trance of ravishment!
I and my lover here that lies
And sleeps the everlasting sleep,
We walk’d whilere in Paradise;
(Can it be true?) Our souls drank deep
Together of Love’s wonder-wine:
We saw the golden days go by,
Unheeding, for we were divine;
Love had advanced us to the sky.
And of that time no traces bin,
Save the still shape that once did hold
My lover’s soul, that shone therein,
As wine laughs in a vase of gold.
Cold, cold he lies, and answers not
Unto my speech; his mouth is cold
Whose kiss to mine was sweet and hot
As sunshine to a marigold.
And yet his pallid lips I press;
I fold his neck in my embrace;
I rain down kisses none the less
Upon his unresponsive face:
I call on him with all the fair
Flower-names that blossom out of love;
I knit sea-jewels in his hair;
I weave fair coronals above
The cold, sweet silver of his brow:
For this is all of him I have;
Nor any Future more than now
Shall give me back what Love once gave.
For from Death’s gate our lives divide;
His was the Galilean’s faith:
With those that serve the Crucified,
He shar’d the chance of Life and Death.
And so my eyes shall never light
Upon his star-soft eyes again;
Nor ever in the day or night,
By hill or valley, wood or plain,
Our hands shall meet afresh. His voice
Shall never with its silver tone
The sadness of my soul rejoice,
Nor his breast throb against my own.
His sight shall never unto me
Return whilst heaven and earth remain:
Though Time blend with Eternity,
Our lives shall never meet again,—
Never by gray or purple sea,
Never again in heavens of blue,
Never in this old earth—ah me!
Never, ah never! in the new.
For me, he treads the windless ways
Among the thick star-diamonds,
Where in the middle æther blaze
The Golden City’s pearl gate-fronds;
Sitteth, palm-crown’d and silver-shod,
Where in strange dwellings of the skies
The Christians to their Woman-God
Cease nevermore from psalmodies.
And I, I wait, with haggard eyes
And face grown awful for desire,
The coming of that fierce day’s rise
When from the cities of the fire
The Wolf shall come with blazing crest,
And many a giant arm’d for war;
When from the sanguine-streaming West,
Hell-flaming, speedeth Naglfar.
poem by John Howard Payne
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Hearts First Word. I.
To sweeten a swift minute so
With such rare fragrance of sweet speech,
And make the after hours go
In a blank yearning each on each ;
To drain the springs till they be dry,
And then in anguish thirst for drink ;
So but to glimpse her robe thirst I,
And my soul hungers and I sink.
There is no word that we have said
Whereby the lips and heart arc fire;
No look the linked glances read
That held the springs of deep desire.
And yet the sounds her glad lips gave
Are on my soul vibrating still ;
Her eyes that swept me as a wave
Shine my soul's worship to fulfil.
Her hair, her eyes, her throat and chin-
Sweet hair, sweet eyes, sweet throat, so sweet,
So fair because the ways of sin
Have never known her perfect feet-
By what far ways and marvellous
May I such lovely heaven reach ?
What dread, dark seas and perilous
Lie 'twist love's silence and love's speech?
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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Fantasies Of A Mirror Part-1
The mirror gasped as she stood in front of it with her tresses flowing longingly
The mirror looked in her dark brown eyes
The mirror admired her almost perfect lips
The mirror gazed longingly at her perfect hips
The mirror took her in its arms
The mirror embraced her reflection in itself
The mirror ran its fingers through her soft hair
The mirror kissed her lips a thousand times
The mirror bit her slender neck
The mirror whispered a thousand nothings in her ears
The mirror …..The mirror ……The mirror
The mirror left its love bites all over her soft warm body
poem by Leonard Rebello
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