Dedication
To Fairy
Do you recall -- I know you do --
A little gift once made to you --
A simple basket filled with flowers,
All favorites of our Southern bowers?
One was a snowy myrtle-bud,
Another blushed as if with blood,
A third was pink of softest tinge,
Then came a disk with purple fringe.
You took them with a happy smile,
And nursed them for a little while,
And once or twice perhaps you thought
Of the fond messages they brought.
And yet you could not then divine
The promise in that gift of mine, --
In those bright blooms and odors sweet,
I laid this volume at your feet.
At yours, my child, who scarcely know
How much to your dear self I owe, --
Too young and innocent as yet
To guess in what consists the debt.
Therefore to you henceforth belong
These Southern asphodels of song,
Less MY creations than your own,
What praise they win are yours alone.
For here no fancy finds a place
But is an affluence of your grace; --
And when my songs are sweetest, then
A Dream like you hath touched my pen.
poem by Henry Timrod
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
To Fairy
Do you recall -- I know you do --
A little gift once made to you --
A simple basket filled with flowers,
All favorites of our Southern bowers?
One was a snowy myrtle-bud,
Another blushed as if with blood,
A third was pink of softest tinge,
Then came a disk with purple fringe.
You took them with a happy smile,
And nursed them for a little while,
And once or twice perhaps you thought
Of the fond messages they brought.
And yet you could not then divine
The promise in that gift of mine, --
In those bright blooms and odors sweet,
I laid this volume at your feet.
At yours, my child, who scarcely know
How much to your dear self I owe, --
Too young and innocent as yet
To guess in what consists the debt.
Therefore to you henceforth belong
These Southern asphodels of song,
Less MY creations than your own,
What praise they win are yours alone.
For here no fancy finds a place
But is an affluence of your grace; --
And when my songs are sweetest, then
A Dream like you hath touched my pen.
poem by Henry Timrod
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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
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A Dedication - To K.S.G.
Fair Saxon, in my lover's creed,
My love were smaller than your meed,
And you might justly deem it slight,
As wanting truth as well as sight,
If, in that image which is shrined
Where thoughts are sacred, you could find
A single charm, or more or less,
Than you to all kind eyes possess.
To me, even in the happiest dreams,
Where, flushed with love's just dawning gleams,
My hopes their radiant wings unfurl,
You're but a simple English girl,
No fairer, grace for grace arrayed,
Than many a simple Southern maid;
With faults enough to make the good
Seem sweeter far than else it would;
Frank in your anger and your glee,
And true as English natures be,
Yet not without some maiden art
Which hides a loving English heart.
Still there are moments, brief and bright,
When fancy, by a poet's light,
Beholds you clothed with loftier charms
Than love e'er gave to mortal arms.
A spell is woven on the air
From your brown eyes and golden hair,
And all at once you seem to stand
Before me as your native land,
With all her greatness in your guise,
And all her glory in your eyes;
And sometimes, as if angels sung,
I hear her poets on your tongue.
And, therefore, I, who from a boy
Have felt an almost English joy
In England's undecaying might,
And England's love of truth and right,
Next to my own young country's fame
Holding her honor and her name,
I -- who, though born where not a vale
Hath ever nursed a nightingale,
Have fed my muse with English song
Until her feeble wing grew strong --
Feel, while with all the reverence meet
I lay this volume at your feet,
As if through your dear self I pay,
For many a deep and deathless lay,
For noble lessons nobly taught,
For tears, for laughter, and for thought,
A portion of the mighty debt
We owe to Shakespeare's England yet!
poem by Henry Timrod
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The Mourners
LOW she lies, who blest our eyes
Through many a sunny day;
She may not smile, she will not rise--
The life hath past away!
Yet there is a world of light beyond,
Where we neither die nor sleep--
She is there, of whom our souls were fond--
Then wherefore do we weep?
The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told
In each glance of her glad bright eye;
And she lies pale, who was so bright,
She scarce seemed made to die.
Yet we know that her soul is happy now,
Where the saints their calm watch keep;
That angels are crowning that fair young brow--
Then wherefore do we weep?
Her laughing voice made all rejoice,
Who caught the happy sound;
There was gladness in her very step,
As it lightly touched the ground.
The echoes of voice and step are gone;
There is silence still and deep:
Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne--
Then wherefore do we weep?
The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe;
That lies like a shadow there,
Were beautiful in the eyes of all--
And her glossy golden hair!
But though that lid may never wake
From its dark and dreamless sleep,
She is gone where young hearts do not break--
Then wherefore do we weep?
That world of light with joy is bright,
This is a world of woe:
Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight,
Because we dwell below?
We will bury her under the mossy sod,
And one long bright tress we'll keep;
We have only given her back to God--
Ah! wherefore do we weep?
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Remembrance
WITH COPIES OF THE AUTHOR'S WRITINGS.
Friend of mine! whose lot was cast
With me in the distant past;
Where, like shadows flitting fast,
Fact and fancy, thought and theme,
Word and work, begin to seem
Like a half-remembered dream!
Touched by change have all things been,
Yet I think of thee as when
We had speech of lip and pen.
For the calm thy kindness lent
To a path of discontent,
Rough with trial and dissent;
Gentle words where such were few,
Softening blame where blame was true,
Praising where small praise was due;
For a waking dream made good,
For an ideal understood,
For thy Christian womanhood;
For thy marvellous gift to cull
From our common life and dull
Whatsoe'er is beautiful;
Thoughts and fancies, Hybla's bees
Dropping sweetness; true heart's-ease
Of congenial sympathies;--
Still for these I own my debt;
Memory, with her eyelids wet,
Fain would thank thee even yet!
And as one who scatters flowers
Where the Queen of May's sweet hours
Sits, o'ertwined with blossomed bowers,
In superfluous zeal bestowing
Gifts where gifts are overflowing,
So I pay the debt I'm owing.
To thy full thoughts, gay or sad,
Sunny-hued or sober clad,
Something of my own I add;
Well assured that thou wilt take
Even the offering which I make
Kindly for the giver's sake.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Dear little Darling
I don't have any kids but someday when i do i would like to say this one for them on there wedding day.
Dear little darling,
My sweet little child
I woke up this morning
With a thought in my head
I love you a lot
My dear sweet child
I love you so much
I made a poem,
Just for you sweet child
I want to see you grow,
I want to see you blossom,
I want to sing you lullabies,
I want to whisper soft words,
You make me smile
You make me laugh
You also make me cry,
I cry because I am happy
Happy to see you,
Happy to see you grow
I am filled with joy to see you every day
I am glad you are my child;
I know this poem doesn’t rhyme,
It doesn’t have to
You are what the poem is about,
I watched you grow,
I watched you blossom,
I sang sweet lullabies,
I whispered soft words,
And now its time for me to say goodbye;
You are my life, my gift from heaven
Although you are grown up
And it’s your wedding day
A day of happiness
A new chapter in your life,
But just remember this
You will always, be my sweet child.
The Gift You Are
This song appears on four albums, and was first released on the flower that shattered the stone album, and has also been released on the stonehaven sunrise, the gift you are and the john denver
Ction - annies song albums.
Imagine a month of sundays
Each one a cloudy day
Imagine the moment the sun came shining through
Imagine that ray of sunshine as you
Remember your darkest hour
With dawn still far away
Remember the way that you longed for mornings light
And think of yourself as a candle in the night
Make believe this is the first day
Everything all brand new
Make believe that the sun is your own lucky star
And then understand the kind of gift you are
The gift you are
Like the very first breath of spring
The gift you are
All the joy that love can bring
The gift you are
All of our dreams come true
The gift you are
The gift of you
You are the promise of all the ages
You are the prodigal son
You are the vision of prophets and sages
You are the only one
Dream of a bright tomorrow
Know that your dream will come true
Carry your dream in a sparkling crystal jar
Then you will know the kind of gift you are
The gift you are
Like the very first breath of spring
The gift you are
All the joy that love can bring
The gift you are
All of our dreams come true
The gift you are
The gift of you
The gift you are
Like the very first breath of springtime
The gift you are
All the joy that love can bring
The gift you are
All of our dreams come true - yes they do
The gift you are
The gift of you
The gift you are
The gift of you
Words and music by john denver
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pink Letter
Dear Father,
To thee this letter
Is written with a child’s wonder.
Pink ink
On a fancy paper almost pink
Like a blush on a maiden’s cheek
Like rose abloom in mountain’s peak.
Pink letter in the hands of a child
Bears words innocent and mild
Glorifying the father who made all –
tame and wild.
Pink letter with heavenly scent
Pink ink that stays, not evanescent
Lasts in the heart of the child who writes
Too innocent to name wrong from right.
Dear Father,
To thee this letter
Is written with a child’s wonder.
poem by Geraldine Fernandez
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A Bird and flower upon the tree
A bird and flower upon the tree,
Sweet peony and oriole,
Each of them a perfect soul,
Song and sweetness manifest
The bird and flower we love the best
Side by side on the tall tree.
'Flower who art sunlight and fire, flower who art perfume and joy,
Sweetest of sweet,
Ah for the gift withheld!
Ah for the given gift's alloy!
Why must thy spirit exhale only in beauty and breath?
Ah for the voice thou hast not! I by thy side on the tree,
Telling the world of love, pain, and all raptures that be,
Raptures of laughter and life, raptures of tears and death,
Singing my heart to heaven, singing to earth at my feet;
Silence in thee.'
'Bird who art dew-drops and flame, bird who art rapture and song,
Sweetest of sweet,
Lo there's a voice part mine, songs that to me too belong,
Songs that grew of my growth, voice that has breathed my breath.
Bird that while I sit mute singest beside on the tree,
Hast thou ever a song taking no perfume of me?
Give forth my sweetness in song; bird, thou art singing for both,
Singing our hearts to heaven, singing to earth at our feet;
My voice in thee.'
On the tree-top side by side,
Sweet oriole and peony;
Music rings through earth and sky,
Sweet and sweet in sweetness lost
The flower and bird we love the most,
On the tree-top side by side.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Inscription
When the last stir of bubbling melodies
Broke as my chants sank underneath the wave
Of dulcitude, but sank again to rise
Where man's embaying mind those waters lave,
(For music hath its Oceanides
Flexuously floating through their parent seas,
And such are these),
I saw a vision--or may it be
The effluence of a dear desired reality?
I saw two spirits high, -
Two spirits, dim within the silver smoke
Which is for ever woke
By snowing lights of fountained Poesy.
Two shapes they were familiar as love;
They were those souls, whereof
One twines from finest gracious daily things,
Strong, constant, noticeless, as are heart-strings
The golden cage wherein this song-bird sings;
And the other's sun gives hue to all my flowers,
Which else pale flowers of Tartarus would grow,
Where ghosts watch ghosts of blooms in ghostly bowers; -
For we do know
The hidden player by his harmonies,
And by my thoughts I know what still hands thrill the keys.
And to these twain--as from the mind's abysses
All thoughts draw toward the awakening heart's sweet kisses,
With proffer of their wreathen fantasies, -
Even so to these
I saw how many brought their garlands fair,
Whether of song, or simple love, they were, -
Of simple love, that makes best garlands fair.
But one I marked who lingered still behind,
As for such souls no seemly gift had he:
He was not of their strain,
Nor worthy of so bright beings to entertain,
Nor fit compeer for such high company.
Yet was he, surely, born to them in mind,
Their youngest nursling of the spirit's kind.
Last stole this one,
With timid glance, of watching eyes adread,
And dropped his frightened flower when all were gone;
And where the frail flower fell, it withered.
But yet methought those high souls smiled thereon;
As when a child, upstraining at your knees
Some fond and fancied nothings, says, 'I give you these!'
poem by Francis Thompson
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Hon. James B. Clay
Another pang for Southern hearts,
That of late so oft have bled,
Another name to add to the roll
Of their mighty, patriot dead;
A vacant place ’mid that phalanx proud.
Of which each glorious name
Is dear to a mighty nation’s heart,
And dear to undying fame.
The God-given gift of genius his,
The patriot’s holy fire,
For he we mourn was a worthy son
Of a great and glorious sire:
Ah! whate’er the changes time may bring,
Shall never pass away
From the people’s mind, in North or South,
The deathless name of Clay.
Yet an exile in a foreign land,
His spirit passed from earth,
Far from the old dear scenes of home,
The loved land of his birth,—
The land he had well and truly served,
With heart, with sword, with pen,
Since first he had joined the march of life,
By the side of his fellow men.
No Southern breezes, soft and sweet,
Played around his dying bed,
No Southern flowers in glowing bloom,
Rich fragrance round him shed;
The wintry light of a Northern sky,
Earth robed in snowy vest,
Were the scenes that met his yearning gaze
As he passed into his rest
But near him gathered devoted hearts,
Wife, children, at his side,
Wept bitter tears while hushed they looked,
With fond, revering pride,
On him who had ever been to them,
Throughout his life’s career,
A model of all that honor high,
Or virtue holds most dear.
And other mourners leaves he too,
Who had learned to love him well.
Though short the time since he had come,
Within our midst to dwell:
Friends who will keep his name fore’er
’Mid those they we set apart,
To cherish deeply, and revere,
Within their inmost heart.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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There Shall Be No Returns
No one brought to them a 'gift' basket,
Filled with their own trials and tribulations.
To sample and taste.
This has been from their creation.
From decisions that they've made.
And choices they've had from the start.
Who forced them to neglect their own values?
With a sickening disrespect...
Allowed in and out of their homes to roam.
Who placed delusion high on their priority list?
And when this was mentioned...
Those brave enough to have done this,
Were left abandoned like orphanes
To feel quite alone!
Shunned within the same environment.
No one brought to them a 'gift' basket,
Filled with their own trials and tribulations.
To sample and taste.
And if that happened...
They chose and selected,
The packing and the wrapping!
Inform them...
There shall be no returns.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sonnet L.
FROM THE NOVEL OF CELESTINA.
FAREWELL, ye lawns!--by fond remembrance blest,
As witnesses of gay unclouded hours;
Where, to maternal friendships' bosom prest,
My happy childhood past among your bowers.
Ye wood-walks wild!--where leaves and fairy flowers
By Spring's luxuriant hand are strewn anew;
Rocks!--whence with shadowy grace rude nature low'rs
O'er glens and haunted streams!--a long adieu!
And you!--O promised Happiness!--whose voice
Deluded Fancy heard in every grove,
Bidding this tender, trusting heart, rejoice
In the bright prospect of unfailing love:
Though lost to me--still may thy smile serene
Bless the dear lord of this regretted scene.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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The stork
Last night the Stork came stalking,
And, Stork, beneath your wing
Lay, lapped in dreamless slumber,
The tiniest little thing!
From Babyland, out yonder
Beside a silver sea,
You brought a priceless treasure
As gift to mine and me!
Last night my dear one listened -
And, wife, you knew the cry -
The dear old Stork has sought our home
A many times gone by!
And in your gentle bosom
I found the pretty thing
That from the realm out yonder
Our friend the Stork did bring.
Last night a babe awakened,
And, babe, how strange and new
Must seem the home and people
The Stork has brought you to;
And yet methinks you like them -
You neither stare nor weep,
But closer to my dear one
You cuddle, and you sleep!
Last night my heart grew fonder -
0 happy heart of mine,
Sing of the inspirations
That round my pathway shine!
And sing your sweetest love-song
To this dear nestling wee
The Stork from 'Way-Out-Yonder
Hath brought to mine and me!
poem by Eugene Field
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Southern Woman
Written by james young, raymond brandle
Lead vocals by james young
First met you in a southern town
On a warm november day
You made me smoke like a whirlwind
I knew we had nothing to say
Love me but dont try and make me stay
Southern woman
Take my soul but dont you take my life
Southern woman
Make me feel good but dont you tell my wife
[guitar solo]
Once again in the early spring
I touched your ravens crown
Your wild eyed stories of rare delight
Like to knock me down
Its getting so damn hard to put you down
Southern woman
Take my soul but dont you take my life
Southern woman
Make me feel good but dont you tell my wife
[instrumental solos]
Southern woman
Take my soul but dont you take my life
Southern woman
Make me feel good but dont you tell my wife
Southern woman
Take my soul but dont you take my life
Southern woman
Make me feel good but dont you tell my wife
Southern woman
Yeah
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Not Love
I HAVE not yet I could have loved thee, sweet;
Nor know I wherefore, thou being all thou art,
The engrafted thought in me throve incomplete,
And grew to summer strength in every part
Of root and leaf, but hath not borne the flower.
Love hath refrained his fullness from my heart.
I know no better beauty, none with power
To hold mine eyes through change and change as thine,
Like southern skies that alter with each hour,
And yet are changeless, and their calm divine
From light to light hath motionlessly passed,
With only different loveliness for sign.
I know no fairer nature, nor where, cast
On the clear mirror of thine own young truth,
The imaged things of Heaven lie plainer glassed;
Nor where more fit alike show tender ruth,
And anger for the right, and hopes aglow,
And joy and sighs of April-hearted youth.
But some day I, so wont to praise thee so
With unabashed warm words for all to hear,
Shall scarcely name another, speaking low.
Some day, methinks, and who can tell how near?
I may, to thee unchanged, be praising thee
With one not worthier but a world more dear;
With one I know not yet, who shall, maybe,
Be not so fair, be not in aught thy peer;
Who shall be all that thou art not to me.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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A Prayer For All My PH Friends
Dear Lord
I praise and thank you
for the gift of life and love
the gift of wisdom and discernment
the gift of prayer
I praise and thank you
for the gift of friendship
In a very special way,
i surrender to the throne of your grace
the concerns of my PH friends
who shared their time and talents
to this humble servant of yours
I lift up to you, My Lord
the problems they have encountered in their daily lives
Complete physical healing, financial healing
Emotional, spiritual and healing of relationships
In their missions to establish your kingdom
Cover them with your most precious blood
Knowing that you are an answering God
I praise and thank you for in faith
In Jesus name..Amen
poem by Meggie Gultiano
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L'Ancien Regime
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king,
Our king all kings above?
A young girl brought him love;
And he dowered her with shame,
With a sort of infamous fame,
And then with lonely years
Of penance and bitter tears --
Love is scarcely the thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A statesman brought him planned
Justice for all the land;
And he in recompense got
Fierce struggle with brigue and plot,
Then a fall from lofty place
Into exile and disgrace --
Justice is never the thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A writer brought him truth;
And first he imprisoned the youth,
And then he bestowed a free pyre
That the works might have plenty of fire,
And also to cure the pain
Of the headache called thought in the brain --
Truth is a very bad thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
The people brought their sure
Loyalty fervid and pure;
And he gave them bountiful spoil
Of taxes and hunger and toil,
Ignorance, brutish plight,
And wholesale slaughter in fight --
Loyalty's quite the worst thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A courtier brought to his feet
Servility graceful and sweet,
With an ever ready smile
And an ever supple guile;
And he got in reward the place
Of the statesman in disgrace --
Servility's always a thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A soldier brought him war,
La gloire, la victoire,
Ravage and carnage and groans,
For the pious Te Deum tones;
And he got in return for himself
Rank and honors and pelf --
War is a very fine thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A harlot brought him her flesh,
Her lusts, and the manifold mesh
Of her wiles intervolved with caprice;
And he gave her his realm to fleece,
To corrupt, to ruin, and gave
Himself for her toy and her slave
Harlotry's just the thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king,
Our king who fears to die?
A priest brought him a lie,
The blackness of hell uprolled
In heaven's shining gold;
And he got as guerdon for that
A see and a cardinal's hat --
A lie is an excellent thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Has any one yet a thing
For a gift to our lord the king?
The country gave him a tomb,
A magnificent sleeping-room;
And for this it obtained some rest,
Clear riddance of many a pest,
And a hope which it much enjoyed
That the throne would continue void --
A tomb is the very best thing
For a gift to our lord the king.
poem by James Thomson
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The Graves Of A Household
They grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee;
Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight,
Where are those dreamers now?
One, midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream is laid,
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the lov'd of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain:
He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth,
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, oh earth!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Sweetest Gift
(written by j.b. coats)
One day a mother went to prison
To see an eering but precious son
She told the warden
How much she loved him
It did not matter what he had done
She did not bring to him
A parole or pardon free
She brought no silver
(brought no gold)
No pomp nor style
(longed to see)
It was a halo bright
Sent down from heavens light
The sweetest gift
A mothers smile
She left a smile
You can remember
Shes gone to heaven
From heartaches free
Those walls around you
Could never change her
You were her baby
And ere will be
She did not bring to him
A parole or pardon free
She brought no silver
(brought no gold)
No pomp nor style
(longed to see)
It was a halo bright
Sent down from heavens light
The sweetest gift
A mothers smile
song performed by by Trisha Yearwood
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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