To Rosa ----: Acrostic
I took a Rosebud from a certain bower,
And by its side placed an Orange flower,
Then with the Speedwell, blended the perfume
And the sweet beauty of an Apple-bloom,
And thus, 't is one of the loveliest feats,
Is spelled a gentle lady's name in sweets.
poem by Henry Timrod
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The Violet
DOWN in a green and shady bed,
A modest violet grew;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head
As if to hide from view.
And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its colour bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower,
Instead of hiding there.
Yet thus it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffused a sweet perfume,
Within the silent shade.
Then let me to the valley go
This pretty flower to see;
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.
poem by Ann Taylor
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The Violet
Down in a green and shady bed,
A modest violet grew;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head
As if to hide from view.
And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its colour bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower,
Instead of hiding there.
Yet thus it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffused a sweet perfume,
Within the silent shade.
Then let me to the valley go
This pretty flower to see;
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.
poem by Jane Taylor
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For Lillian
She was so dear, so fair. Her memory stays,
Even her dying robs me not of this,
That I have walked with her in mortal ways
Whose tender beauty now immortal is.
There are sweet flowers that bloom in ways forlorn
And sad sweet eyes whose beauty is a flower
Blown in the night to which there is no morn,
Dream-born and dying in its dewy bower;
And she was such a flower, her sweet eyes such;
The secret hours that only the heart knows
Thrill with the glamour of her tone and touch
Like music that is sweetest at the close,
Falling to death as falls the fairest thing
Beyond the power of love's recovering.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Endless verse of a nameless flora:
A lonely lovely girl was Standing at her breeze filled balcony,
her adorable heart was admiring the quiet moon in harmony,
a golden yellowish nameless flower fell on her feet,
the sweet perfume of the fallen flower blended with that chill breeze,
while she tried to hold the flower the petals they fell one by one,
she was holding just the stalk that was left alone,
tear drops that escaped from her eyes fell one by one like the petals,
she was holding someone's sweet memories like the stalk.
The moon wished that her love should blend with her love like the perfume in the air.
poem by Vimal Kumar N
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The Genius of Painting
ADDRESSED TO D——M——
The Genius of Painting one summer eve stray'd,
In a moment of leisure, to Flora's bright bower,
Where, scatter'd around, by the hand of the maid,
In the richest profusion, bloom'd many a flower.
“Oh, see,” Flora cried, as the Genius drew nigh,
“What an Eden of beauty is blossoming here!
But yet”—and a tear-drop stood bright in her eye,—
“How soon will its loveliness all disappear!
“Oh Genius! bid them still live in your art,
And my gratitude well shall your kindness repay;
To some favour'd mortal your spirit impart,
And teach him to rescue my flowers from decay.”
Behold I have rear'd, in my favourite bower,
A shrine, and an altar, dear Painting, for you;
And there will I offer each loveliest flower,
As often as morning their sweets shall renew.”
“Many thanks, dearest Flora!” the Genius cried,
“Though many an altar and temple is mine,
That with richer and costlier gifts are supplied,
Yet none of them all shall be dearer than thine.
“I will gift with my spirit whoever you will,
Yet choose not, dear Flora, the renegade man;
For the ingrate from you will be wandering still,
O'er fields more extended and varied to scan.”
At this instant, a maiden drew near to the bower,
And Flora's own fondness beam'd soft from her eye,
As with rapture she hung o'er each beautiful flower,
Or heaved o'er the dying a tremulous sigh.
Flora turn'd on the Genius a smile of delight—
“There, Painting,” she cried, “is my favourite maid!
Infuse in her bosom your genius bright,
And soon shall your altar be richly array'd.”
“On that maid, then,” said he, “shall my spirit descend,
A bright, and unfading, and beautiful gem;
The young favourite of Flora my shrine shall attend,
And the priestess of painting shall still be D. M.”
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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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The Perfume And Colour Of Flower, Is Already In The Plant!
The flower blooms on that Plant,
Enchanting beauty and colour of
flower,
Perfume and colours were in the
flowering plants,
The perfume spreads, colours shine,
When every heart bloom on
maturity of love and wisdom!
The fragrance of flowers allready
bloomed-gives not only
courage, but also hope and faith
in nature's laws and Nature's plans!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Time For Joining War
We have to join in war,
This is the time to join in war
Yes, I have to go to battle field
Not to waste time in this way.
Have to go to war; have to go to war
Have to go to war.
Bondage! No, no, no and never,
I do not accept, can’t accept, this can’t be
Flowers will not bloom on my way-this can’t be
Can any one hold the sun in pledge?
I must join the war,
Join the war, join the war.
Enemy of flower is the foe of sun
Foe of sun is the enemy of flower
And also enemy of our love-
Flood, thunder, storm- are temporary distress
Could you hold your beauty in pledge at mirror?
No! No, no, no, no- it will must come out.
Perfume of flower is sent as letter
Perfume of flower, perfume of flower, perfume of flower-
Who are the enemies their eremite is for ever
Enemy of river, tree, magpie robin and cuckoo
War, war against them
Yes, I have to go to battle field.
War against them who create obstruction
On the way of river
War against them who hang the green grass
War against them who obstruct the rain fall from sky
War, war and war
Against them who obstruct to love flower, poet to write
Who obstruct to talk in mother tongue!
War, war, war and war against them
I have to go to battle field-
This is the time to join in war
This is the time to join in war
And this is the time to join in war.
poem by Bongokobida Zakaria
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The Flower of Love
'Tis said the rose is Love's own flower,
Its blush so bright, its thorns so many;
And winter on its bloom has power,
But has not on its sweetness any.
For though young Love's ethereal rose
Will droop on Age's wintry bosom,
Yet still its faded leaves disclose
The fragrance of their earliest blossom.
But ah! the fragrance lingering there
Is like the sweets that mournful duty
Bestows with sadly-soothing care,
To deck the grave of bloom and beauty.
For when its leaves are shrunk and dry,
Its blush extinct, to kindle never,
That fragrance is but Memory's sigh,
That breathes of pleasures past for ever.
Why did not Love the amaranth choose,
That bears no thorns, and cannot perish ?
Alas! no sweets its flowers diffuse,
And only sweets Love's life can cherish.
But be the rose and amaranth twined,
And Love, their mingled powers assuming,
Shall round his brows a chaplet bind,
For ever sweet, for ever blooming.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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Sonnet: The Flower’s No More
A flower rare grew ’midst the wild flowers,
And had such beauty, words can never tell!
Last year, ’twas born in July-end showers;
This July rain became its fast death knell.
The flower will not grow here-aft again!
No more its sweet perfume shall emanate;
And while alive, this land always did gain;
Some persons didn’t allow it pollinate.
The flower’s dead and none can resurrect!
The time was short for seeds to generate;
But all the time, it stood with grace- Erect!
And gained a place in hearts that venerate.
The flower will not bloom herein again!
Ill-luck had smiled, denying all, its reign.
poem by John Celes
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April Flower
Bloom for me,
My April flower.
Show your beauty,
I'll take a gander.
The wind scatters your scent
Giving me the feeling of heaven.
You're the perfection i've dreamt,
The one that i've chosen.
Bloom for me,
My April Flower,
And let me see,
Your petals that matches no other.
I know you're not mine
And you did not grew for me
I can only see you again this time
Unable to resist fate's cruelty.
Bloom for me,
My April Flower,
Though we're not destined to be,
Stay in my heart and take shelter.
In my heart, you will not wilt,
You will eternally bloom..
Even if i am burdened by this guilt,
and love is my certained doom.
Bloom for me for the last time,
At least i can call this moment mine
Ignore my reasons that doesn't rhyme,
Show me your beauty that i can't define.
Bloom..for all eternity..April Flower.
poem by John Paul Ang
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The Rose
The rose thou show'st me has lost all its hue,
For thou dost seem to me than it less fair;
For when I look I turn from it to you,
And feel the flower has been thine only care;
Thou could'st have grown as freely by its side
As spring these buds from out the parent stem,
But thou art from thy Father severed wide,
And turnest from thyself to look at them,
Thy words, do not perfume the summer air,
Nor draw the eye and ear like this thy flower;
No bees shall make thy lips their daily care,
And sip the sweets distilled from hour to hour;
Nor shall new plants from out thy scattered seed,
O'er many a field the eye with beauty feed.
poem by Jones Very
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To dear KASTHURI - The Wilted Flower -Poem-2
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POEM-2
WILTED FLOWER
Like a flower
That sweetly blooms
In the bower;
Shedding its beauty
All around,
As its bounden duty;
You, my dear,
Did all you could
To wipe a tear
Which others shed,
As your bounden duty
And them you led..
Like a flower,
That droops down
In its bower;
Whose beauty is torn,
From this earth
In the following morn;
You, my dear,
Were made to wilt;
Though many a tear,
Could not help,
To bring you back;
In our great yelp!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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A Beautiful Flower Blooming
A withered flower blooming again
breeze shook the flower
the sun is shining on flower
rain water to wash the dust-filled flower
abort storm petals
storm that renders the flower petals
polling beetle sucking painful
flower that bloom so bright today
beauty exudes an aura of coolness of the beholder
spread the fragrance that invites a bee to touch
although many other flowers around it
bees sucking the flower first
choose to suck and touch the flower
lately the flower
always bloom radiate beauty
a bee was not able to get away from the flower
a bee sucking the beautiful bloomington
always produce the honey taste good
really beautiful relationship between the flower and bee
both are very compatible and complement each other
poem by meti Rahmawati
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The Rose Of Flora
On Brady's tower there grows a flower,
It is the loveliest flower that blows,—
At Castle Brady there lives a lady,
(And how I love her no one knows);
Her name is Nora, and the goddess Flora
Presents her with this blooming rose.
'O Lady Nora,' says the goddess Flora,
'I've many a rich and bright parterre;
In Brady's towers there's seven more flowers,
But you're the fairest lady there:
Not all the county, nor Ireland's bounty,
Can projuice a treasure that's half so fair!'
What cheek is redder? sure roses fed her!
Her hair is maregolds, and her eye of blew.
Beneath her eyelid, is like the vi'let,
That darkly glistens with gentle jew!
The lily's nature is not surely whiter
Than Nora's neck is,—and her arrums too.
'Come, gentle Nora,' says the goddess Flora,
My dearest creature, take my advice,
There is a poet, full well you know it,
Who spends his lifetime in heavy sighs,—
Young Redmond Barry, 'tis him you'll marry,
If rhyme and raisin you'd choose likewise.'
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Heathrose
ONCE a boy a Rosebud spied,
Heathrose fair and tender,
All array'd in youthful pride,--
Quickly to the spot he hied,
Ravished by her splendour.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Heathrose fair and tender!
Said the boy, "I'll now pick thee,
Heathrose fair and tender!"
Said the rosebud, "I'll prick thee,
So that thou'lt remember me,
Ne'er will I surrender!"
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Heathrose fair and tender!
Now the cruel boy must pick
Heathrose fair and tender;
Rosebud did her best to prick,--
Vain 'twas 'gainst her fate to kick--
She must needs surrender.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Heathrose fair and tender!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Sonnet XXIX: The Moonstar
Lady, I thank thee for thy loveliness,
Because my lady is more lovely still.
Glorying I gaze, and yield with glad goodwill
To thee thy tribute; by whose sweet-spun dress
Of delicate life Love labours to assess
My lady's absolute queendom; saying, “Lo!
How high this beauty is, which yet doth show
But as that beauty's sovereign votaress.”
Lady, I saw thee with her, side by side;
And as, when night's fair fires their queen surround,
An emulous star too near the moon will ride,—
Even so thy rays within her luminous bound
Were traced no more; and by the light so drown'd,
Lady, not thou but she was glorified.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The Satin Bower-Bird
Spare a bloom of blue, lady,
To adorn a bower.
A violet will do, lady
Any azure flower.
Since we hold a dance to-day,
We would make our ball-room gay,
Where the scented grasses sway.
And the tall trees tower.
Beautiful but shy, lady,
Yesterday we came
Dropping from the sky, lady,
Flecks of golden flame
Golden flame and royal blue
We have come to beg of you
Any scrap of heaven's hue
For our dancing game.
Spare us but a leaf, lady,
If our suit be spurned
We shall play the thief, lady,
When your back is turned;
Ravishing your garden plot
Of the choicest you have got
Pansy or forget-me-not
Counting it well earned.
Then, if some rare chance, lady,
Later should befall.
And you gain a glance, lady,
At our dancing hall,
You will find your blossoms there
'Mid our decorations where,
With a proud, patrician air,
We hold the Bushland Ball.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Indian Lover. Morning Song.
O'ER flowery fields of waving maize,
The breeze of morning lightly plays;
Arise, my Zumia! let us rove,
The cool and fragrant citron grove!
Fair nature spreads her lavish bloom,
And bids her zephyrs waft perfume;
She breathes ambrosial odours rare;
With cassia-fragrance fills the air,
And calls thee forth her sweets to share,
My lovely maid!
We'll mark each aromatic flower,
Expanding to the radiant hour;
We'll seek the scented orange-bower,
Or tam'rind shade;
Now, ere the fervid hours of day,
Arise, my Zumia! haste away!
Hark! from yonder palmy grove,
Swells the choral song of love!
There, on every weeping spray,
Warblers tune the melting lay:
Morning's roseate hues are spreading
Balmy essence, flowers are shedding;
Nature smiles, in green array,
My Zumia rise! no more delay!
Now glitt'ring in the lucid rays,
The humming-bird his wing displays
Floats on the sun-beam and the gale,
From spicy wood, to myrtle-vale;
Flutters on light, ethereal plume,
In tints of orient beauty drest;
Steals honey from the glowing bloom,
And weaves the fairy-nest.
I'll climb each tall, aspiring tree,
To seek nectareous fruits for thee;
I'll cull the blossoms op'ning fair,
In blushing wreaths to bind thy hair:
For thee the streams in murmurs flow;
For thee the buds empurpling glow;
For thee the balmy zephyrs play;
Arise, my Zumia! haste away!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Apples
I am an orange man from an orange tree and,
I want to taste the fruits of your apple tree of love;
So prepare me a table so sweet for your apples.
My juice is orange and your love is from this apple tree,
So prepare me a nice table to taste some of your fruits!
Oh, how i dream to taste your sweet apples.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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