En.Citatepedia^®.ro

To Rosamund

AND it is fair and very fair
This maze of blossom and sweet air,
This drift of orchard snows,
This royal promise of the rose
Wherein your young eyes see
Such buds of scented joys to be.
A gay green garden, softly fanned
By the blythe breeze that blows
To speed your ship of dreams to the enchanted land.

But I--beyond the budding screen
Of green and red and white and green,
Behind the radiant show
Of things that cling and grow and glow
I see the plains where lie
The hopes of days gone by:
Gray breadths of melancholy, crossed
By winds that coldly blow
From that cold sea wherein my argosy is lost.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Hospital Ship

There is a green-lit hospital ship,
Green, with a crimson cross,
Lazily swaying there in the bay,
Lazily bearing my friend away,
Leaving me dull-sensed loss.
Green-lit, red-lit hospital ship,
Numb is my heart, but you carelessly dip
There in the drift of the bay.

There is a green-lit hospital ship,
Dim as the distance grows,
Speedily steaming out of the bay,
Speedily bearing my friend away
Into the orange-rose.
Green-lit, red-lit hospital ship,
Dim are my eyes, but you heedlessly slip
Out of their sight from the bay.

There was a green-lit hospital ship,
Green, with a blood-red cross,
Lazily swaying there in the bay,
But it went out with the light of the day -
Out where the white seas toss.
Green-lit, red-lit hospital ship,
Cold are my hands and trembling my lip:
Did you make home from the bay?

poem by W.H. Littlejohn
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I Plucked A Rose From A Garden Green......

By Murtaza Abt

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
Of beauty never felt or seen,
Hoping that it would never wilt,
And always be as always been.

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
with a happy blissful heart,
And promised i would hold it tight,
And never would we part.

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
But little did i know,
That not in endless love and care,
But gardens do they grow.

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And took it home with me,
But little did it stay the way,
The way t'was meant to be.

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to grieve,
Over gardens green and meadows lush,
As it was sad to leave.

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to wilt,
And wither in that unknown land,
it filled my heart with guilt.

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to die,
For happiness i had only asked,
But i began to cry.

....................................

I have p L ucked y O u from a garden green,
Your beauty i VE never felt or seen,
Hoping that YOU will never wilt,
And always be as always been.

09/Nov/09

poem by Murtaza Abt
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Spring Song In The City

WHO remains in London,
In the streets with me,
Now that Spring is blowing
Warm winds from the sea;
Now that trees grow green and tall,
Now the sun shines mellow,
And with moist primroses all
English lanes are yellow?

Little barefoot maiden,
Selling violets blue,
Hast thou ever pictur’d
Where the sweetlings grew?
Oh, the warm wild woodland ways,
Deep in dewy grasses,
Where the windblown shadow strays,
Scented as it passes!

Pedlar breathing deeply,
Toiling into town,
With the dusty highway
You are dusky brown;
Hast thou seen by daisied leas,
And by rivers flowing,
Lilac-ringlets which the breeze
Loosens lightly blowing?

Out of yonder wagon
Pleasant hay-scents float,
He who drives it carries
A daisy in his coat:
Oh, the English meadows, fair
Far beyond all praises!
Freckled orchids everywhere
Mid the snow of daisies!

Now in busy silence
Broods the nightingale,
Choosing his love’s dwelling
In a dimpled dale;
Round the leafy bower they raise
Rose-trees wild are springing;
Underneath, thro’ the green haze,
Bounds the brooklet singing.

And his love is silent
As a bird can be,
For the red buds only
Fill the red rose-tree;
Just as buds and blossoms blow
He ’ll begin his tune,
When all is green and roses glow
Underneath the moon.

Nowhere in the valleys
Will the wind be still,
Everything is waving,
Wagging at his will:
Blows the milkmaid’s kirtle clean,
With her hand press’d on it;
Lightly o’er the hedge so green
Blows the ploughboy’s bonnet.

Oh, to be a roaming
In an English dell!
Every nook is wealthy,
All the world looks well,
Tinted soft the Heavens glow,
Over Earth and Ocean,
Waters flow, breezes blow,
All is light and motion!

poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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Eyes Of Green And Gray

Eyes of green and gray
i wish you'd look my way
smile for me today
O eyes of green and gray

Eyes of black and white
of sorrow and delight
i behold every sight
through eyes of black and white

Eyes as hard as stone
so cold and all alone
lost without a home
with eyes as hard as stone

Eyes of green and gray
it's here i want to stay
and never look away
from eyes of green and gray

poem by Sergey Sibikovsky
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The Land Is Green

The land is green
It is just green
Do not see any other colour
That will make you not to cultivate

The land is green
It must be green
Avoid the deceit of the unpatriotic
They have only their interest at heart

The land is green
It will remain green
Speak not with the double minded.
Nothing positive will come from them

The land is green
For our crops to grow
For our next generation to feed
Our land is meant to be green

poem by Chika Ogbonna
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When Green Leaves Come again

WHEN green leaves come again, my love,
When green leaves come again,--
Why put on such a cloudy face,
When green leaves come again?

'Ah, this spring will be like the last,
Of promise false and vain;
And summer die in winter's arms
Ere green leaves come again.

'So slip the seasons--and our lives;
'T is idle to complain:
But yet I sigh, I scarce know why,
When green leaves come again.'

Nay, lift up thankful eyes, my sweet!
Count equal, lost and gain:
Because, as long as the world lasts,
Green leaves will come again.

For, sure as earth lives under snows,
And Love lives under pain,
'T is good to sing with everything,
'When green leaves come again.'

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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I Be Or Don't Be (A Song)

I be or don’t be
Would be spreading whiff
As a blossom, As a bud
In the orchard of love
I be or don‘t be

Whatever the weather
I always will be there
To keep the orchard fresh
And in colour of desire
Will be watering it ever
As a blossom as a bud
The orchard of love
I be or don’t be

I will unfurl my shirt
And sway in the breeze
Will glow like flower
On the blossom trees
Would spread fragrance
As a blossom as a bud
In the garden of love
I be or don’t be

When I won’t be there
Her eyes with tears
Would be finding me
She would stop in reverie
Where I will meet her
As a blossom, as a bud
In the orchard of love
I be or don’t be

poem by S.D. Tiwari
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The Last Rose Of Autumn

Upon the leaf litter that covers the ground
The faded rose petals lay scattered around
The last rose of Autumn has answered the call
Of the cold grim reaper and so too must we all.

The last rose of Autumn she too had her day
She bloomed bright and lovely through June from late May
But the beautiful pink flower the last on her tree
Has returned to Nature and so too must we.

And now on the rose tree the tiny buds show
The green baby buds that to pink roses will grow
And in the green parkland the birds chirp and sing
And the magpies stick gathering at the coming of Spring.

Upon the leaf litter now faded and gray
The last rose of Autumn has gone to decay
And the mother who bore her has new baby flowers
And the fate of the rose it will also be ours.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Sonnet to J.L. #1

I wonder why your ships are painted green
While ours are gray? I’ve heard some sailors say
That swift ships, camouflaged, can move unseen
Against the sea. Strange, though, it’s always cold gray
Winter’s sea that we anticipate.
I think perhaps you’re wiser with your green.
It is as though you mean to imitate
The warmer, friendlier seas that lie between
The tropics. I wonder, could it be
Your ships are prayers, . their paint a subtle way
To challenge God to grant a happier sea
Than we’d expect in our dour ships of gray?
If so, I pray that God hears your green prayer
And sends you always green seas, calm and fair.

poem by S.J. Fulton
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After A Lecture On Keats

'Purpureos spargam flores.'

THE wreath that star-crowned Shelley gave
Is lying on thy Roman grave,
Yet on its turf young April sets
Her store of slender violets;
Though all the Gods their garlands shower,
I too may bring one purple flower.
Alas! what blossom shall I bring,
That opens in my Northern spring?
The garden beds have all run wild,
So trim when I was yet a child;
Flat plantains and unseemly stalks
Have crept across the gravel walks;
The vines are dead, long, long ago,
The almond buds no longer blow.
No more upon its mound I see
The azure, plume-bound fleur-de-lis;
Where once the tulips used to show,
In straggling tufts the pansies grow;
The grass has quenched my white-rayed gem,
The flowering 'Star of Bethlehem,'
Though its long blade of glossy green
And pallid stripe may still be seen.
Nature, who treads her nobles down,
And gives their birthright to the clown,
Has sown her base-born weedy things
Above the garden's queens and kings.
Yet one sweet flower of ancient race
Springs in the old familiar place.
When snows were melting down the vale,
And Earth unlaced her icy mail,
And March his stormy trumpet blew,
And tender green came peeping through,
I loved the earliest one to seek
That broke the soil with emerald beak,
And watch the trembling bells so blue
Spread on the column as it grew.
Meek child of earth! thou wilt not shame
The sweet, dead poet's holy name;
The God of music gave thee birth,
Called from the crimson-spotted earth,
Where, sobbing his young life away,
His own fair Hyacinthus lay.
The hyacinth my garden gave
Shall lie upon that Roman grave!

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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The Rim Of Green

Green panties, green roses
green tits, green milk.
Green moon, posies in green.
green eyes, green full lips
green face, cheese, green..
Green around the rim,
green limes can but erupt...?

poem by Is It Poetry
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A Dream in Winter

When all the daisies and daffodils
are buried deep below,
and summer's but a memory
hidden 'pon the drifting snow ~
'tis there beneath the whitened glow,
in a bed of greenest green,
that lives the dreams of springtime hue
with a gleam of emerald sheen.

When all the trees are bared and bent
against wintry winds that blow,
and spring is but a wistful sigh
'pon the branches that bow low ~
'tis there within the boughs so wide,
in a bed of greenest green,
that lives the buds of springtime hue
with a gleam of emerald sheen.

When roses fade 'pon winter's morn
as their petals flee on frosty breath,
and thorns are left to sadly yearn
in their bed of beauty's death ~
'tis there beneath those roses grown,
in a bed of greenest green,
that lives a vision of springtime hue
with a gleam of pastel sheen.

When winter brings a world of white,
a wonderland of icy glow,
and ends the seasons of green, and gold,
hidden 'neath a field of snow ~
'tis there the sleeping earth awaits
in a bed of springtime green,
sighing softly through winter's chill,
'pon a dream of emerald sheen.

poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
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Margaret

I KNOW a garden where white lilies grow,
Under the grey sweet-laden apple boughs;
It is a garden where the roses blow,
And honeysuckle covers half the house.
O happy garden, do you keep the vows
Breathed in your quiet ear beneath the rose,
Or do you tell the tale to each soft wind that blows?

Across your grassy paths she used to stray,
She moved among you like a living flower,
Her beauty drank your beauty every day,
Your beauty decked her beauty every hour.
You gave her rose and lily for a dower,
With all sweet flowers and fruits your bosom bore--
She took them all--and now she comes not any more.

O garden, if you breathe such secret things
To the south wind who loves you, tell him this:
To spread the scented softness of his wings,
And seek that other garden where she is,
And bid him bear no blossom and no kiss;
Only, dear garden, tell the wind to say
How grey the world is grown since Margaret went away!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Song

Steal from the meadows, rob the tall green hills,
Ravish my orchard's blossoms, let me bind
A crown of orchard flowers and daffodils,
Because my love is fair and white and kind.

To-day the thrush has trilled her daintiest phrases,
Flowers with their incense have made drunk the air,
God has bent down to gild the hearts of daisies,
Because my love is kind and white and fair.

To-day the sun has kissed the rose-tree's daughter,
And sad Narcissus, Spring's pale acolyte,
Hangs down his head and smiles into the water,
Because my love is kind and fair and white.

poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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Green, green and green

I want a holiday with a scene
Of green, green and green

A summer of green trees
A landscape of green grass
A view full of green vegetables

The colour green
Is a beauty that must be seen!
From a moving vehicles screen

And while we hold onto those machines
That deprives us of the colour green
Remember they provide us vaccines
As well as help the air to be clean

So for green, green and green
I will travel continents across and in-between
And also to any place that I have never been
I will make it routine
Just to see green, green and green

Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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A Wind From... Elsewhere

The wind blows here... the wind blows there
The wind seems to blow from... everywhere.
But the wind I love... when it blows... blows fair...
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE! Can you see its graceful fingers... playing in your hair?
Nay! You cannot see the wind... e'en though you know it's there.
It's flitting... it's flirting... it's prancing everywhere
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE! It blows unexpectedly... with a gentle breeze... it blows...
The Great Hand of Miracles... brings it... then it goes
To greet the early morning sun... to dance to and fro
From the highest, loftiest mountain heights... to valleys... far below. 'Who is He that sitteth upon the circle of the earth...
Who gathereth the winds in his fists—Who maketh a wind to pass over...
Thou hearest the sound thereof...
But canst not tell whence it cometh... and wither it goeth.' The wind blows here... the wind blows there...
The wind seems to blow... from everywhere.
But the wind I love... when it blows... blows fair—
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE!

poem by Elga Haymon White
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Betrothed

I DID not think to love her. As we go
We pluck a hedge-rose blushing in its sheath,
Fresh, and at hand; and not the less we know
That where rich garden blossoms take the breath
With eddying sweets and wear a thousand hues
We shall be fain to linger and to choose.
And who indeed
Would pass the garden by to choose the weed,
The little wayside rose we hold and lose?

Fair; and so loving. With the young surprise
Of children who still newly understand
Their right and wrong out of their mother's eyes,
She watches for my thought. Her trustful hand
Creeps into mine and rests. Ah, little one,
Hadst thou loved less I had not been undone;
My wayside rose.
I love thee, sweet: some hopes have found their close
Ere yet their aim; some joys ceased unbegun.

I had not thought to love her. She is fair;
But I had pictured eyes which, meeting mine,
Should kindle something in me that was there
But waited Her arousing; I divine
A love, that was to be, past hence unborn,
The sun o'erclouded ere it rose at morn.
I love thee, yes:
Let hopes be dead which thou couldst never guess.
Sweet, could I let thy blossom drop unworn?

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Green, Green, and More Green

There is green everywhere,
even in peoples' hair.Some
on hands, some on shirts.
There is green everywhere!

Green, green, and more green.
I think I'm going crazy over green.
If you don't wear green you get pinched,
then you'll start to itch.
So many people are obsessed with green.
Green Spring, green air.Green feet, green wheat, green meat.
Green isn't very neat!

poem by Autumn Howard
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Green Rose

I am a green rose

No one can see me

Because I wont show myself

My real self

All around me are red roses

I am a green rose

Its not impossible to find me

Just try, keep a search

Were am I

Were you can find me

Inside

Not a red rose

I’m a green rose

I’m hard to find

Impossible to think of

Amazing in the inside

Good color

Forget those red roses

I’m a green rose

Different

Different is always better

People like different

Seeing a green rose

Shocks the world

I not like a red rose

Never

Red roses are always the same

Like a clique

There is only one green rose

that’s me

I’m a green rose

Beautiful, Different, Pure Beauty

poem by November Nelson
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The Dying Rose

Once so beautiful, freshly cut, a single rose stands
encompassed by succulent green leaves and proud standing thorns

petite white gypsum surrounds this expression of love
the tall slender rose vase holds the water for life

Words of appreciation are given as eyes drink in the vista before them
scented perfume fills and stimulates heightened senses
colors of red, green and virgin white stimulate the eyes

As all things that live, so all things must die in their turn
rose petals shrivel and loose the lustre if red
succulent green leaves whither, turn brown and die
virgin petite gypsum wilts and becomes a dirty used white.

Water discolors to a slimy foul smelling green
the once beautiful is now the 'Dying Rose.'

When did it start to die?
When it was cut off from its source of life.

poem by Ruth warren
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