The Memories They Bring
I would never waste the hours
Of the time that is mine own,
Writing verses about flowers
For their own sweet sakes alone;
Gushing as a schoolgirl gushes
Over babies at their best—
Or as poets trill of thrushes,
Larks, and starlings and the rest.
I am not a man who praises
Beauty that he cannot see,
But the buttercups and daisies
Bring my childhood back to me;
And before life’s bitter battle,
That breaks lion hearts and kills,
Oh the waratah and wattle
Saw my boyhood on the hills.
It was “Cissy” or Cecilia,
And I loved her very much,
When I wore the white camelia
That will wither at a touch.
Ah, the fairest chapter closes
With lilies white and blue,
When the wild days with the roses
Cast their glamour over you!
Vine leaves fall and laurels wither
(Madd’ning drink and pride insane),
And the fate that sends us hither
Ever takes us back again.
Fading flowers—slow pulsations—
Flowers pressed for memory
But the red and pink carnations
Speak most bitter things to me.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Laus Mortis
I bring to thee, for love, white roses, delicate Death!
White lilies of the valley, dropping gently tears,
The white camellia, the seal of perfect years,
The misty white azalea, flickering as a breath.
White flowers I bring, and all the flowers I bring for thee,
Discreet and comforting Death! for those pale hands of thine;
O hands that I have fled, soft hands now laid on mine,
Softer than these white flowers of life, thy hands to me,
Most comfortable Death, mother of many dreams,
And gatherer of many dreams of men,
Dreams that come desolately flying back again,
With soiled and quivering wings, from undiscovered streams.
I have been fearful of thee, mother, all life long,
For I have loved a warm, alluring, treacherous bride,
Life, and she loved thee not; to hold me from thy side,
She closed her arms about my heart, to do thee wrong.
O gay and bitter bride of such divine desires,
Too fiercely passionate Life, that wast so prodigal
Of thine eternal moments, at the end of all
Take my forgiveness: I have passed through all thy fires.
Nothing can hurt me now, and having gained and lost
All things, and having loved, and having done with life,
I come back to thy arms, mother, and now all strife
Ceases; and every homeward-flying dream, wind-tossed,
My soul that looks upon thy face and understands,
My throbbing heart that at thy touch is quieted,
And all that once desired, and all desire now dead,
Are gathered to the peace and twilight of thy hands.
poem by Arthur Symons
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Bring Flowers
Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd;
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath!
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!
Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers!
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side-
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!
Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!
For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nurs'd.
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pale flowers!
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
They are nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Buttercups and Daisies
I never see a young hand hold
The starry bunch of white and gold,
But something warm and fresh will start
About the region of my heart; -
My smile expires into a sigh;
I feel a struggling in my eye,
'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray,
Till rolling tears have won their way;
For, soul and brain will travel back,
Through memory's chequer'd mazes,
To days, when I but trod life's track
For buttercups and daisies.
There seems a bright and fairy spell
About there very names to dwell;
And though old Time has mark'd my brow
With care and thought, I love them now.
Smile, if you will, but some heartstrings
Are closest link'd to simplest things;
And these wild flowers will hold mine fast,
Till love, and life, and all be past;
And then the only wish I have
Is, that the one who raises
The turf sod o'er me, plant my grave
With buttercups and daisies.
poem by Eliza Cook
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
All our morning glory days are done
All our morning glory days are done
just like the flowers
that you made me rip out
from where they grew
towering under the sun.
The garden is empty
and stripped of the violet flowers
that grew everywhere
and I am no longer there
and wonder if the geraniums,
irises, marigolds, white lilies,
red roses and lavender
are still being watered
or is every thing in your life
just fading away
into death
with the falling leaves
of this autumn?
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Forget The Flowers
You're tryin' my patience, try pink carnations, red roses and yellow
daffodils
Don't forget the flowers Sunday, I know you will
Displayers of affection and all good intentions, why don't you just send
me the bill
Don't forget the flowers someday, I know you will
Whether you've been takin' me way too seriously, ewwwewwhoo
I can't ever explain why I don't feel the pain, ewwewwhoo
I left you behind I know its been along time, but I'm not over you
Don't forget the flowers someday, I hope I do
You're tryin' my patience, try pink carnations, red roses and yellow
daffodils
Don't forget the flowers someday
I know I will
Don't forget the flowers someday, I know I will
song performed by by Wilco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
I Got You
You're tryin' my patience, try pink carnations, red roses and yellow
daffodils
Don't forget the flowers Sunday, I know you will
Displayers of affection and all good intentions, why don't you just send
me the bill
Don't forget the flowers someday, I know you will
Whether you've been takin' me way too seriously, ewwwewwhoo
I can't ever explain why I don't feel the pain, ewwewwhoo
I left you behind I know its been along time, but I'm not over you
Don't forget the flowers someday, I hope I do
You're tryin' my patience, try pink carnations, red roses and yellow
daffodils
Don't forget the flowers someday
I know I will
Don't forget the flowers someday, I know I will
song performed by by Wilco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Welcome, Dear Heart, and a Most Kind Good-Morrow
Welcome, dear Heart, and a most kind good-morrow;
The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine:—
Flowers I have none to give thee, but I borrow
Their sweetness in a verse to speak for thine.
Here are red roses, gather'd at thy cheeks,—
The white were all too happy to look white:
For love the rose, for faith the lily speaks;
It withers in false hands, but here 'tis bright!
Dost love sweet Hyacinth? Its scented leaf
Curls manifold,—all love's delights blow double:
'Tis said this flow'ret is inscribed with grief,—
But let that hint of a forgotten trouble.
I pluck'd the Primrose at night's dewy noon;
Like Hope, it show'd its blossoms in the night;—
'Twas, like Endymion, watching for the Moon!
And here are Sun-flowers, amorous of light!
These golden Buttercups are April's seal,—
The Daisy-stars her constellations be:
These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel,
Therefore I pluck no Daisies but for thee!
Here's Daisies for the morn, Primrose for gloom
Pansies and Roses for the noontide hours:—
A wight once made a dial of their bloom,—
So may thy life be measured out by flowers!
poem by Thomas Hood
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Delia: XXXI (1592 version): Look, Delia, how we 'steem the
XXXI (
version)
Look, Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown rose,
The image of thy blush and summer's honour,
Whilst in her tender green she doth enclose
That pure sweet beauty time bestows upon her.
No sooner spreads her glory in the air
But straight her full-blown pride is in declining;
She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the fair:
So clouds thy beauty after fairest shining.
No April can revive thy wither'd flowers,
Whose blooming grace adorns thy beauty now;
Swift speedy time, feather'd with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.
O let not then such riches waste in vain,
But love whilst that thou mayst be lov'd again.
poem by Samuel Daniel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet XXXIX: Look, Delia
Look, Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown Rose,
The image of thy blush and Summer's honor,
Whilst in her tender green she doth enclose
That pure sweet Beauty Time bestows upon her.
No sooner spreads her glory in the air,
But straight her full-blown pride is in declining;
She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the Fair;
So clouds thy beauty after fairest shining.
No April can revive thy wither'd flowers,
Whose blooming grace adorns thy glory now;
Swift speedy Time, feather'd with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.
O let not then such riches waste in vain,
But love whilst that thou mayst be lov'd again.
poem by Samuel Daniel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
All Lovely Things
All lovely things will have an ending,
All lovely things will fade and die,
And youth, that's now so bravely spending,
Will beg a penny by and by.
Fine ladies soon are all forgotten,
And goldenrod is dust when dead,
The sweetest flesh and flowers are rotten
And cobwebs tent the brightest head.
Come back, true love! Sweet youth, return!--
But time goes on, and will, unheeding,
Though hands will reach, and eyes will yearn,
And the wild days set true hearts bleeding.
Come back, true love! Sweet youth, remain!--
But goldenrod and daisies wither,
And over them blows autumn rain,
They pass, they pass, and know not whither.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sometimes Its As If My Childhood Days Come Back
Sometimes it's as if my childhood days come back
and it's as if the colour and texture catches me
when I am astounded by the sheer beauty of things,
by the smell of flowers hanging in the air,
where I see clouds as flakes,
and it's as if the colour and texture catches me
that is spread over the bright blue in small pieces
that brings me back to another time and place
where I see clouds as flakes,
and I am again full of joy and happiness
and the whole sky is full with specks between the blue and white
that brings me back to another time and place,
to the memories of my childhood days
when I see the summer sun rising golden
and the whole sky is full with specks between the blue and white
and the birds and insects are of the loveliness some proof.
Sometimes it's as if my childhood days come back
when I see the summer sun rising golden,
when I am astounded by the sheer beauty of things.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Kentish Garden
THERE is a grey-walled garden, far away
From noise and smoke of cities, where the hours
Pass with soft wings among the happy flowers,
And lovely leisure blossoms every day.
There, tall and white, the sceptral lily blows;
There grow the pansy, pink, and columbine,
Brave hollyhocks, and star-white jessamine,
And the red glory of the royal rose.
There greeny glow-worms gem the dusky lawn,
The lime-trees breathe their fragrance to the night,
Pink roses sleep, and dream that they are white,
Until they wake to colour with the dawn.
There, in the splendour of the sultry noon,
The sunshine sleeps upon the garden bed
Where the white poppy droops a drowsy head
And dreams of kisses from the white full moon.
And there, some days, all wild with wind and rain,
The tossed trees show the white side of their leaves,
While the great drops drip from the ivied eaves,
And birds are still--till the sun shines again.
And there, all days, my heart goes wandering,
Because there, first, my heart began to know
The glories of the summer and the snow,
The loveliness of harvest and of spring.
There may be fairer gardens; but I know
There is no other garden half so dear;
Because 'tis there, this many, many a year,
The sacred, sweet, white flowers of memory grow!
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Life Is Bitter
Life is bitter. All the faces of the years,
Young and old, are gray with travail and with tears.
Must we only wake to toil, to tire, to weep?
In the sun, among the leaves, upon the flowers,
Slumber stills to dreamy death the heavy hours …
Let me sleep.
Riches won but mock the old, unable years;
Fame’s a pearl that hides beneath a sea of tears;
Love must wither, or must live alone and weep.
In the sunshine, through the leaves, across the flowers,
While we slumber, death approaches through the hours …
Let me sleep.
poem by William Ernest Henley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Flowers
(orbison/dees)
When I was a boy I ran among the flowers
Looking left and right at the bright array
I played through the spring, whiled away the hours
Lingered with the flowers every day
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, along the way
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, along the way
When the summer ends and the storms of life are over
When the winter comes and the petals fall away
They may write it on my stone, he was just a roller
But he stopped to pick some flowers along the way
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, picked some flowers, along the way
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Carnations in the garden
There are carnations in the garden
in colours of ruby red,
pure white and blossom pink
and some pink with deep purple inside
and others purple-blue.
I smell the sweet fresh flowers
and look at colours
hue as if by magic
into each other.
Some grow in flowering pots,
some are planted in flowerbeds,
others even in the rock garden
and the flowers at places are mixed
to catch the eye
and everywhere there’s care
and a lot of love
that went into the tending of it.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Pink Carnation
I may walk until I’m fainting, I may write until I’m blinded,
I might drink until my back teeth are afloat,
But I can’t forget my ruin and the happy days behind it,
When I wore a pink carnation in my coat.
Oh, I thought that time could conquer, and I thought my heart would harden,
But it sends a sudden lump into my throat,
When I think of what I have been, and the cottage and the garden,
When I wore a pink carnation in my coat.
God forgive you, girl, and bless you! Let no line of mine distress you –
I am sorry for the bitter lines I wrote;
But remember, and think kindly, for we met and married blindly,
When I wore a pink carnation in my coat.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When I Was Yours
(emmylou harris/paul kennerley)
In a lonely room waiting for the night to fall
I hear your voice in every whip-poor-will that calls
And it takes me back to a better place and a sweeter time
When I was yours and you were mine
As the shadows fall and the light grows dim I see your face
I close my eyes and feel the warmth of your embrace as I long for you
And for all those days when hearts entwined
When I was yours and you were mine
When I was yours and you were mine
When I was yours and you were mine
A truer love in caroline
Ever waltzed across these hills and danced beneath the stars
Life was sweeter than the flowers blooming on the vine
When I was yours and you were mine
So I lay my head
On a pillow soft and stained with tears
I cry for you through all the long and lonely years
But when I dream till the morning sun comes to shine
Then Ill be yours and youll be mine
Yes I will go back to a better place and a sweeter time
When I was yours and you were mine
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
0377 Should be, but
I should be writing a poem
about those small wisps of white cloud
moving unusually fast across a blue blue sky
on their way to somewhere else
as if they're late for an appointment.
I should be writing a poem
about the way the breeze is so gentle
that it seems to have a secret plan with the sun
and the new green leaves
to do something quite extraordinary.
I should be writing a poem
about the way that the trailing geranium leaves
are giving out a scent more white than green
more heavenly than any thought.
I should be writing a poem
about the way that the purple and blue and yellow and white flowers
seem to say nothing but beauty.
I should be writing a poem
but all I can do is gaze in amazement
at what I've seen before
and never seen before.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mundane Beauty
A cluster of Day Lilies glow
like embers beneath the shadow
of a time-worn Box elder tree
that's plainly visible to see
if looking for mundane beauty.
Their golden flowers so briefly
lived poses for a single day;
at days end they wither away.
Their presence always call to mind
that beauty last the briefest time
but I possess a memory
where beauty lives eternally.
Though they will die I'd soon exhume
I'd close my eyes they'd still be bloomed.
poem by Albert Ahearn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Venus in the Garden
'Twas at early morning,
The dawn was blushing in her purple bed,
When in a sweet, embowered garden
She, the fairest of the goddesses,
The lovely Venus,
Roamed amongst the roses white and red.
She sought for flowers
To make a garland
For her golden head.
Snow-white roses, blood-red roses,
In that sweet garden close,
Offered incense to the goddess:
Both the white and the crimson rose.
White roses, red roses, blossoming:
But the fair Venus knew
The crimson roses had gained their hue
From the hearts that for love had bled;
And the goddess made a garland
Gathered from the roses red.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!