En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Despot

1 The garden mould was damp and chill,
2 Winter had had his brutal will
3 Since over all the year's content
4 His devastating legions went.

5 Then Spring's bright banners came: there woke
6 Millions of little growing folk
7 Who thrilled to know the winter done,
8 Gave thanks, and strove towards the sun.

9 Not so the elect; reserved, and slow
10 To trust a stranger-sun and grow,
11 They hesitated, cowered and hid
12 Waiting to see what others did.

13 Yet even they, a little, grew,
14 Put out prim leaves to day and dew,
15 And lifted level formal heads
16 In their appointed garden beds.

17 The gardener came: he coldly loved
18 The flowers that lived as he approved,
19 That duly, decorously grew
20 As he, the despot, meant them to.

21 He saw the wildlings flower more brave
22 And bright than any cultured slave;
23 Yet, since he had not set them there,
24 He hated them for being fair.

25 So he uprooted, one by one
26 The free things that had loved the sun,
27 The happy, eager, fruitful seeds
28 That had not known that they were weeds.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Weed

There was an old woman
that planted a garden.
And in the garden
there grew a weed.
The weed grew next to
a beautiful flower.

The flower had grown
from a tiny seed.
The weed was strong
and would not bend.
The wind did blow
and it did send

the seeds from the flower
into the air.
They circled around
and landed where
the weed was growing
next to the flower.

Soon the weed was
surrounded by flowers.
It loved where it was
and looked by the hours
at all of the beautiful
colorful flowers.

The old woman who planted
the garden one day
decided that she would
make a bouquet.
She went to the garden
to cut the flowers.

But when she got there
down came the showers.
The raindrops that fell
made the weed shine
which made the old woman
change her mind.

She left them alone
in her garden and knew
that the weed belonged
with the flowers that grew.
She'd planted the flowers.
God planted the weed.

The garden was perfect.
No bouquet did she need.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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In the spring garden

In the spring garden
~
In the spring garden
Birds sing and chatter
While flowers raise their heads
To greet the morning sun
A garden filled with colour bright
A garden which now fills with life
The bee and the butterfly hover
From flower to flower gathering nectar
Seeding the flowers blossom
Throughout the spring garden
The dew glistens upon the grass
While the wind gently rolls in the tree
All the world slowly waking
Soon to this bounty of great beauty
Every hue from natures pallet
Is here free for all to see
In the spring garden

poem by Matthew Holloway
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In the Garden, With My Father

It is spring.
As in my garden, I stand.
In the garden -
My father is there;
... though long since gone...
He IS there.
I tend to the weeds,
The veggies and flowers...
He is there.

I never understood him
(as I should have, could have) ...
Until now,
Here, in the garden.
Where I, like he, work the soil.
I've come just recently
(these last few years)
To enjoy and love my garden so.
- I am not as surprised afterall, as I would have thought,
To find him here.
Here, in the garden.
He loved his garden very much.......
I - at that early age of restless youth - had no use
For such slow moving things.

But now, I see, and myself move, at a much slower pace.
Therefore, it is him I am here and now able to see,
In the garden.
Watching it all grow, so peacefully.

It is somewhat sad, that now,
When I can no longer tell him,
I understand.
For I have come to find... I love the garden too,
Just as much as he;
And we both always will.
My father - standing in the garden -
I now know.
After all these long years.
And I've missed him so;
But, how wonderful to find,
He IS here...
In the garden, our garden,
Always, with me.

poem by Smoky Hoss
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The Rose-Bush

There was a rose-bush in a garden growing,
Its tender leaves unfolding day by day;
The sun looked-on, and his down-going
Left it amid the starlit dusk of nights of May.

The dew-drop came and kissed it in the gloaming;
It gathered sweetness in the morning hours;
The bee beheld it as he went aroaming,
And thought, 'What honey will be hidden in its flowers!'

The light grew richer and the days grew long;
The May-time deepened into June;
The air was laden with the robin's song,
The light wind touched the leaves and set them atune.

And now a tiny bud appeared, and then another--
Bright promises of radiant flowers;
The breezes, whispering, told it to each other,
The rose-bush heard them in the gladsome hours.

New Hope awoke and thrilled in all it veins;
Life is so sweet that culminates in flowers!
It smiled and grew in misty summer rains,
And caught the freshness of the evening showers.

And oft the gardener came and stood beside;
He tended it alway with zealous care,
Watching lest any evil should betide,
Or blight creep o'er the leaves that grew so fair.

He crushed the buds and dropped them on the ground;
The rose-bush felt a chill in every vein;
It drooped, as if to hide each bitter wound--
This strange experience was its earliest thought of pain.

'Poor little plant,' the gardener thought,
Thou art too young, too young to know
That few buds unto flowers are brought,--
It is by pruning thou must grow.'

And still the summer smiled and shoned,
And other roses bloomed and died.
'Mine would more beauteously have blown,'
The little rose-bush sadly sighed.

Again the gardener sought his flowers,
Where he had watched his treasures blow:
The autumn blast has swept the bowers,
The winds and storms has laid them low!

Though sad of heart, the rose-bush still was green;
It lifted up its drooping head;
'The life that would have filled the buds may still be seen,
'Tis folded in its heart,' he said.

He stooped and took it from the ground
All trembling with its vague alarms,
And quick and tenderly he wrapped it round,
And kindly bore it in his arms.

And now where soft the sunshine flows,
Within a fair, immortal bower,
In all its fragrant beauty blooms the rose,
Its every bud grown into perfect flower.

poem by Anonymous Americas
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Wildflowers

The hills were alive with wildflowers
And I was as wild, even wilder than they
For at least I could run, they just died in the sun
And I refused to just wither in place
Just a wild mountain rose, needing freedom to grow
So I ran fearing not where Id go
When a flower grows wild, it can always survive
Wildflowers dont care where they grow
And the flowers I knew in the fields where I grew
Were content to be lost in the crowd
They were common and close, I had no room for growth
I wanted so much to branch out
I uprooted myself from home ground and left
Took my dreams and I took to the road
When a flower grows wild, it can always survive
Wildflowers dont care where they grow
I grew up fast and wild and I never felt right
In a garden so different from me
I just never belonged, I just longed to be gone
So the garden, one day, set me free
Hitched a ride with the wind and since he was my friend
I just let him decide where wed go
When a flower grows wild, it can always survive
Wildflowers dont care where they grow
Repeat chorus

song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Never The God...

Your eyes bright, eager and trusting,
Where do we go from here, my son,
I spent my essence, loving and lusting,
Chasing a paper god, my son.

I turned my sword to a feathered quill,
Ensnared your mother’s heart, my son,
She loved the god in the paper spill
But never the god in your father, son.

We came together when life was full
And loved at the morning light, my son,
‘Til she grew heavy and I grew dull
While you just quickened and grew, my son.

Then you burst out like a single star
That beamed from our both horizons, son
We loved you more than the what-we-were
Than ever we loved each other, son.

So she grew bitter and sharp of tongue
And I went back to the pen, my son,
But all the words that I’d ever sung
Unravelled in desolation, son.

And when she left, she took you too,
The light in my life went out, my son,
I would she’d loved me as I loved you
But love is a laceration, son.

Now you have grown, the world’s ahead,
Your eyes are eager and bright, my son;
Don’t spend your essence on paper gods
Or trust in a woman’s love, my son.

For dreams and all ambitions fade
When a woman leaves in a storm, my son,
Remember the price that your father paid;
Love sought and lost in a rhyme, my son.

13 September 1991

poem by David Lewis Paget
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Green Fingers

People have gardens, both large and small,
Whilst flat dwellers have no garden at all.
Some people love to surround their homes
With comical-looking, little garden gnomes.
A few gardens boast fantastic water-features,
Or a large array of stone, woodland creatures.
To make their garden nice, some folk really do try,
Whilst other gardens really are a sight for sore eyes.
Some folk really wish their garden was just not there,
And, about them, they, very obviously, just do not care.
Without a garden, some people would feel really lost,
And they keep them looking nice, whatever the cost.
Some people are blessed: they have green fingers,
And, in their gardens, for hours, they love to linger.
When some people pull on their gardening gloves,
They tend their gardens with such heartfelt love.
People love to spend their time sowing seeds,
Trimming their hedges, and pulling up weeds.
Some tend flower beds, upon bended knee.
Some grow delicious fruit upon their trees.
The gardener's nightmare is the garden pest:
To eradicate them all, they do their best.
Some people love to escape to their sheds,
Where they can think, and clear their heads.
In their gardens, people love to spend time,
But they like it best, when the weather is fine.
When all of their gardening chores are done,
Some people love to sit and relax in the sun.
Time spent in the garden, always really flies;
The benefits of gardening cannot be denied.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Rose

There was a Rose so warm and bright.
And from it smiles would grow.
It stood out from the other Plants.
It; s beauty was on show.
A Flower with such presence,
That all that came to see.
A Rose within a garden
Blooming happily.

Then one day it's leavs grew weak.
And the brightness seemed to fade.
How could a bud of beuaty,
Grow dull from day to day?
And suddenly the smiles grew weak.
No more stunning petals
No more standing tall.

Then one day the rose grew weak.
And to the ground it fell.
Such a loss to all around
Enchanted by it's spell.
And so a space in the garden
Where once beaty grew.
A space that could never be filled.
By a presence so strong and true

( not written by me but i liked the poem so much it makes me think of my dad)

poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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The Rose Tree Of Winter

In the cold winds of Winter she stands thorny and bare
In Summer large beautiful red flowers she did wear
The Rose tree of Winter not a pretty sight
At a time of year with litle warmth in the sunlight,
When the birds in the sunlit gardens will nest and sing
She will wear her new leaves and rosebuds of the Spring
As a tree the rose tree does not grow very tall
Compared to most trees she does seem very small
But in her full bloom none as lovely as she
In her cloak of flowers she's a beautiful tree
But in Winter she stands there by the garden wall
Of the garden trees the most forlorn one of all
And though it may still be a few months from the Spring
The white backed magpie on the blackwood tree sing
But without her leaves and flowers prickly looking and bare
The rose tree looks drab in the cool morning air.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The ghost Bereft

THE poor ghost came through the wind and rain
And passed down the old dear road again.

Thin cowered the hedges, the tall trees swayed
Like little children that shrank afraid.

The wind was wild and the night was late
When the poor ghost came to the garden gate;

Dank were the flower-beds, heavy and wet,
The weeds stood up where the rose was set.

The wind was angry, the rain beat sore
When the poor ghost came to its own house-door.

'And shall I find her a-weeping still
To think how alone I lie and chill?

'Or shall I find her happy and warm
With her dear head laid on a new love's arm?

'Or shall I find she has learned to pine
For another's love, and not for mine?

'Whatever chance, I have this to my store,
She is mine, my own, for evermore!'

So the poor ghost came through the wind and rain
Till it reached the square bright window pane.

'Oh! what is here in the room so bright?
Roses and love, and a hid delight?

'What lurks in the silence that fills the room?
A cypress wreath from a dead man's tomb?

'What sleeps? What wakes? And oh! can it be
Her heart that is breaking--and not for me?'

Then the poor ghost looked through the window pane,
Though all the glass was wrinkled with rain.

'Oh, there is light, at the feet and head
Twelve tall tapers about the bed.

'Oh, there are flowers, white flowers and rare,
But not the garland a bride may wear.

'Jasmine white and a white white rose,
But its scent is gone where the lost dream goes.

'Straight lilies laid on the strait white bier--
But the room is empty--she is not here!

'Her body lies here, deserted, cold;
And the body that loved it creeps in the mould.

'Was there ever an hour when my Love, set free,
Would not have hastened and come to me?

'Can the soul that loved mine long ago
Be hence and away, and I not know?

'Oh, then God's judgment is on me sore,
For I have lost her for evermore!'

And the poor ghost fared through the wind and rain
To its own appointed place again.

But up in Heaven, where memories cease
Because the blessed have won to peace,

One pale saint shivered, and closer wound
The shining raiment that wrapped her round.

'Oh, fair is Heaven, and glad am I,
Yet I fain would remember the days gone by.

'The past is veiled, and I may not know,
But I think there was sorrow, long ago;

'The sun of Heaven is warm and bright,
But I think there is rain on the earth to-night.

'O Christ, because of Thine own sore pain
Help all poor souls in the wind and rain.'

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Seasons of My Love

I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunrise in her hair
There lived no other in the world could in my heart compare
Her eyes were stars of midnight bliss, her laugh a meadow breeze
I would have done all that she asked, so quick was I to please

I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair
Embraced in velvet lullabies, such sweetness did we share
We were all we ever had but we were wild and free
And in the lands you would not find a soul as lark as me

I loved a maid as white as winter, with snowflakes in her hair
The seasons of our love had both a beauty and despair
Two hearts that beat as one were we, our song was meant to be
And in the skies you would not find a dove as spry as she

I loved a maid as bright as spring, with blossoms in her hair
I loved her fierce, I loved her true, we were doomed; we did not care
The hands of time would take from me, even she was not to spare
In the whispers of my dreams, I still see my maiden fair

poem by Leonard Snow
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Conspicuous by its Absence

While tending to the garden one balmy November,
Helping my mother wash the leaves of the dust,
And gently cut off the dead branches and flowers,
Spraying the ones still seeming bright and robust…

She picked some reeds lying by her side,
Puzzled, I asked what are these for mother.
They are for the infants of the garden my child,
They need support to grow and are called climbers.

Sweet pea is one garden flower of such a family,
So I am going to use these reeds to make a trellis.
By January, despite chill the flowers will be smiling gaily,
Soft hues, translucent, capricious and sweet scented...

They are really my favourite as they have no flamboyance,
Growing them is like meditation and needs a lot of patience.
Now, in gardens, they are conspicuous by their absence,
Perhaps because we like things with zero maintenance...

To thrive, plants or relationships need love and nurture
No wonder, they wilt and have an uncertain future....

poem by Mamta Agarwal
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The Rose

A ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North,
Grew in a little garden all alone;
A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,
Nor fairer garden yet was never known:
The maidens danced about it morn and noon,
And learned bards of it their ditties made;
The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon
Water'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade.
But well-a-day!--the gardener careless grew;
The maids and fairies both were kept away,
And in a drought the caterpillars threw
Themselves upon the bud and every spray.
God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies,
The fairest blossom of the garden dies.

poem by William Browne
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The Garden

CHOKED with ill weeds my garden lay a-dying,
Hard was the ground, no bud had heart to blow,
Yet shone your smile there, with your soft breath sighing:
'Have patience, for some day the flowers will grow.'

Some weeds you killed, you made a plot and tilled it;
'My plot,' you said, 'rich harvest yet shall give,'
With sun-warmed seeds of hope your dear hands filled it,
With rain-soft tears of pity bade them live.

So, weak among the weeds that had withstood you,
One little pure white flower grew by-and-by;
You could not pluck my flower--alas! how should you?
You sowed the seed, but let the blossom die.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Seek not the gardener in the flesh

Two maidens walk throughout the forest unknown
Darkened shadows gloom and each fights off
The demons of her insecurities, they stumble across
What seems like naught less than a garden, for all of
The flowers grow in rows creating the impression of design.

One of the maidens claimed that no gardener would come this
Far into the unknown just to create a garden of such wonders.

The other could not comprehend that such a beauty could of
Come across within a conscious will for it’s existence pure.

They each argued in turn and learnt
From each nothing more than the cementation
Of opinion in ignorance towards the other
Yet they agree to test in empirical measures
What force treasures this Garden of wonder.

So they waited and they waited so patiently,
For they had set up fences, and awaiting defenceless they saw nothing.

They heard nothing but the wind as it carried
Upon its song the seeds of springfull joy,
Still the flowers continued to bloom
But no gardener appeared in the form
The un believer was willing to accept.

She that sees the garden knows true the beauty of her surroundings
She knows that it does not need to be measured
For it is a treasure as it is a pleasure in itself,

Yet still her companion points to the weeds that grow,
She point to the dying trees burnt as embers glow.
She can not listen as her friend explains that each is a cycle within the
Medicine wheel, each weed is as worthy of our praise as are the flowers
That catch and dance in Apollo’s radiance.

As the seasons turn we learn
As we grow every second
We are making anew the mould,
Before the kiln of silence awaits.

Seek not the gardener in the flesh
But know that it is he who breathes fresh breathe anew
Into every living being
The gardener unseen is as real as the emotions within which we swim.

poem by David Lacey
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These Little Ones

'What of the garden I gave?'
God said to me;
'Hast thou been diligent to foster and save
The life of flower and tree?
How have the roses thriven,
The lilies I have given,
The pretty scented miracles that Spring
And Summer come to bring?

'My garden is fair and dear,'
I said to God;
'From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear.
Green-trimmed its sod.
The rose is red and bright,
The lily a live delight;
I have not lost a flower of all the flowers
That blessed my hours.'

'What of the child I gave?'
God said to me;
'The little, little one I died to save
And gave in trust to thee?
How have the flowers grown
That in its soul were sown,
The lovely living miracles of youth
And hope and joy and truth?'

'The child's face is all white,'
I said to God;
'It cries for cold and hunger in the night:
Its little feet have trod
The pavement muddy and cold.
It has no flowers to hold,
And in its soul the flowers you set are dead.'
'Thou fool!' God said.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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It is Spring Time

It is Spring Time

It is spring time.
I can smell it in the air.
I can smell the flowers.
I can smell the grass.
I can touch the grass.
I can touch and taste the vegetable growing in the garden.
The weather is changing.
The weather is warming up.
The trees are blossoming.
The flowers are blossoming.

It is spring time.
Easter has passed.
Beltane has passed.
Spring and May is here.
This is the time to tend to your garden and planted some flowers.
Some people pray to God to protect their garden.
Some people pray to Mother Nature for protect.
I do both and I thank God for this planet.

It is Spring Time.
The animals and bugs come out to play.
The frogs jump around the pond.
The wildflower comes out.
The sky is clean and blue.
The sun is shining.
The horses are running free.
The sunflowers are growing.
When seasons the earth also changes it is a beautiful way.
Nature is every where.

It is spring time.
There is rain and storm.
The trees have leaves and it arms.
The trees are ancient.
An apple falls down from the trees.
This is what thinks spring time is for me.
Spring time is beautiful.
Spring time is when nature is beautiful.

It is spring time.
Spring time is here.
The rabbits come out, and hop round.
The bees are collection honey for us.
The tulips are blossoming.
The roses are blossoming, and looking so beautiful.
The lavender is purple and bright.
Spring time is a time to celebrate.
Spring time is a time to clean our environment.

It is spring time.
Spring time is a time when rain falls.
Spring time is the time when the seasons changes.
Spring time is when the plants grow.
Spring time is my favorite season.
Spring time is the time to be happy.

It is spring time.

poem by Crystal Chown
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With Dogs

If you lie down with dogs
you’ll get fleas

Granddaddy said
and the stink’ll stick to you

and people’ll know
and you sat

next to him
in the garden

on that old seat
he made

out of cast off wood
and he said

keep to your own kind son
don’t get out

of your depth
with that dross

and he stared up
at the sky

and you saw
his cool blue eyes

take in more
than you did

from the cloud shapes
to the passing

overhead birds
and you said

it’s easy to get involved
with that type

they haven’t got
the same degree

of choosiness
and he looked at you

and said
boy if they ain’t choosy

they ain’t bothered
and if they ain’t bothered

they ain’t worth
being with

and he pointed to flowers
growing near by

and said
I grew them from seeds

and cared for them
but those weeds

they don’t get cared for
or loved

but they still grow
because they ain’t bothered

and he looked up
at the sky again

and at the darkening clouds
carrying heavy rain.

poem by Terry Collett
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The Disgarded Garden

Their once was a young man who wanted to become a Gardner. There once was a young Rose Tree that wanted a Gardener. They met each other one summer day and began what seemed to be a beautiful relationship. The Gardner was attentive of his garden along with his Rose Tree and the Rose Tree was so happy that its tender branches grew and it bloomed continuously for the Gardner so he’d always be happy.

As time went by the Rose Tree noticed that Gardner wouldn’t tend to her as much as he once did. And when he did he would cut away harshly at the Rose Tree. The Rose Tree being a simple plant who did not need much attention still bloomed for the Gardner. It seemed the more she tried, the more the Gardner would cut away and the tree was now nestled in the ground. Why could this be? He had a bountiful garden that any Gardner would have loved to have. What more could anyone want thought the Rose Tree.

Now in an abandoned garden the Rose Tree grows back its branches, with very thick thorn’s to protect it self. As time goes by one day, out of nowhere appears a Gardener who has silently admired the Rose Tree from outside the garden gates and begins to nurture the Rose Tree in her garden. He tenderly and sympathetically pulls away all the weeds and brush from the Rose Tree so the air, rain & sunshine can reach her again. Allowing her the opportunity to grow back as she once was; vibrant, strong, colorful and to be simply, herself.

This is something the Rose Tree had long forgotten and is very grateful for the loving words of encouragement and kindness that her new Gardner has shown. She longingly awaits for his visits and when the Gardner comes to see her she bloom’s for him and relaxes underneath his beautifully kind smile. My darling Gardner, I am glad fate has brought you to walk along the path leading to the once lost garden and Rose Tree.

poem by Sarah Barron
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I Planted A Seed

I Planted A Seed

Written by: Wilfred Mellers, Monday, April 26,2010 @ 1: 22 AM

I planted seeds and watched them grow

Each day I fertilized, pesticide, and watered the seeds

Weeds couldn’t strangle my seeds I made sure

They flourished in fertile soil gaining strength by the day

I tended my garden daily without fail

At night I made sure comforted they were

Kept them safe from the elements to flourish

Strong they grew so proud I was of my seedlings

Exquisite blossoms grew from the seeds I sow

Blessed was I my garden full of life and magnificence

Gracious flowers from seeds bloomed respectfully there

Rare colors of light bloom in my plot

Flourished flowers came and went in seasons due

Now fully mature they need tending no more

Their colors now turn a pale winter blue

Scornful now my flowers turn a shadowy brown

Fields I no longer tend dry from disuse

Efforts made gallantly on unappreciative ears they are falling

Ostracized be by flowers lacking in devotion

Buds turned left the farmer to burn in summers heat

One seedling still cares and is always there

Never far fledged the one daffodil looms

In shadows bloomed now to a spectacular delight

In sorrowed fields once a daffodil is now in full bloom

In loving care suffered they not from abandonment

Tender the care giving for the farmer was driven

Success was a must for crooked the journey was laid

Apples of my eyes for I planted seeds and watch them grow

poem by Wilfred Mellers
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