En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Memory

June

The high grass waves, with varied hues
Of wild flowers glowing 'mid the green;
The woods have caught a deeper shade,
And darkly skirt the distant scene.

The white-throat sings from every brake
The blackbird breathes a sweet reply;
The lark's shrill fairy notes awake
The echoes of his native sky:

The pale wild rose is blushing near;
And clinging tendrils round it twine,
That throw their gay and graceful wreaths
In many a varied waving line.

There tremble on the slender stem
The barley's rich and bending heads;
And here the pea, in winged bloom,
Along the air its fragrance sheds.

I cannot smile, though all the scene
Is gay in Nature's brightest guise;
I think on hours that once have been,
And clouds o'er all the landscape rise.

And can no charm that nature knows
The fatal power of grief destroy?
Ah, no! in vain each beauty glows
When mem'ry has no gleam of joy!

poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
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The Bluebell

A fine and subtle spirit dwells
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling breathes
With more or less of power.
There is a silent eloquence
In every wild bluebell
That fills my softened heart with bliss
That words could never tell.

Yet I recall not long ago
A bright and sunny day,
'Twas when I led a toilsome life
So many leagues away;

That day along a sunny road
All carelessly I strayed,
Between two banks where smiling flowers
Their varied hues displayed.

Before me rose a lofty hill,
Behind me lay the sea,
My heart was not so heavy then
As it was wont to be.

Less harassed than at other times
I saw the scene was fair,
And spoke and laughed to those around,
As if I knew no care.

But when I looked upon the bank
My wandering glances fell
Upon a little trembling flower,
A single sweet bluebell.

Whence came that rising in my throat,
That dimness in my eye?
Why did those burning drops distil -
Those bitter feelings rise?

O, that lone flower recalled to me
My happy childhood's hours
When bluebells seemed like fairy gifts
A prize among the flowers,

Those sunny days of merriment
When heart and soul were free,
And when I dwelt with kindred hearts
That loved and cared for me.

I had not then mid heartless crowds
To spend a thankless life
In seeking after others' weal
With anxious toil and strife.

'Sad wanderer, weep those blissful times
That never may return!'
The lovely floweret seemed to say,
And thus it made me mourn.

poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Two Roses

A humble wild-rose, pink and slender,
Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet,
Beside a Jacqueminot’s royal splendour,
And both in my lady’s boudoir lay.

Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning,
‘I wonder why you are called a rose?
Your leaves will fade in a single morning;
No blood of mine in your pale cheek glows.

‘Your course green stalk shows dust of the highway,
You have no depths of fragrant bloom;
And what could you learn in a rustic byway
To fit you to lie in my lady’s room?

‘If called to adorn her warm, white bosom,
What have you to offer for such a place,
Beside my fragrant and splendid blossom,
Ripe with colour and rich with grace?

Said the sweet wild-rose, ‘Despite your dower
Of finer breeding and deeper hue,
Despite your beauty, fair, high-bred flower,
It is I who should lie on her breast, not you.

‘For small account is your hot-house glory
Beside the knowledge that came to me
When I heard by the wayside love’s old story
And felt the kiss of the amorous bee.’

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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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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Ode to Borrowdale

IN CUMBERLAND.

Hail , Derwent's beauteous pride!
Whose charms rough rocks in threatening grandeur guard,
Whose entrance seems to mortals barred,
But to the Genius of the storm thrown wide.

He on thy rock's dread height,
Reclined beneath his canopy of clouds,
His form in darkness shrouds,
And frowns as fixt to keep thy beauties from the sight.

But rocks and storms are vain:
Midst mountains rough and rude
Man's daring feet intrude,
Till, lo! upon the ravished eye
Burst thy clear stream, thy smiling sky,
Thy wooded valley, and thy matchless plain.

Bright vale! the Muse's choicest theme,
My morning thought, my midnight dream;
Still memory paints thee, smiling scene,
Still views the robe of purest green,
Refreshed by beauty-shedding rains,
Which wraps thy flower-enamelled plains;

Still marks thy mountains' fronts sublime,
Force graces from the hand of time;
Still I thy rugged rocks recall,
Which seem as nodding to their fall,
Whose wonders fixed my aching sight,
Till terror yielded to delight,
And my surprises, pleasures, fears,
Were told by slow delicious tears.

But suddenly the smiling day
That cheered the valley, flies away;
The wooded rocks, the rapid stream,
No longer boast the noon-tide beam.

But storms athwart the mountains sail,
And darkly brood o'er Borrowdale.
The frightened swain his cottage seeks,
Ere the thick cloud in terror speaks:--
And see, pale lightning flashes round!
While as the thunder's awful sound
On Echo's pinion widely flies,
Yon cataract's roar unheeded dies;....
And thee, Sublimity! I hail,
Throned on the gloom of Borrowdale.

But soon the thunder dies away,
The flash withdraws its fearful ray;

Again upon the silver stream
Waves in bright wreaths the noon-tide beam.

O scene sequestered, varied, wild,
Scene formed to soothe Affliction's child,
How blest were I to watch each charm
That decks thy vale in storm or calm!

To see Aurora's hand unbind
The mists by night's chill power confined;
Upon the mountain's dusky brow
Then mark their colours as they flow,
Gliding the colder West to seek,
As from the East day's splendours break.

Now the green plain enchants the sight,
Adorned with spots of yellow light;
While, by its magic influence, shade
With contrast seems each charm to aid,
And clothes the woods in deeper dyes,
To suit the azure-vested skies.
While, lo! the lofty rocks above,
Where proudly towers the bird of Jove;
See from the view yon radiant cloud
His broad and sable pinions shroud,
Till, as he onward wings his flight,
He vanishes in floods of light;
Where feathered clouds on æther sail,
And glittering hang o'er Borrowdale.....

Or, at still midnight's solemn hour,
When the dull bat revolves no more,
In search of nature's awful grace,
I'd go, with slow and cautious pace,
Where the loud torrent's foaming tide
Lashes the rock's uneven side,....
That rock which, o'er the stream below
Bending its moss-clad crumbling brow,
Makes pale with fear the wanderer's cheek,
Nor midnight's silence fails to break
By fragments from its aged head,
Which, rushing to the river's bed,
Cause, as they dash the waters round,
A dread variety of sound;

While I the gloomy grandeur hail,
And awe-struck rove through Borrowdale.

Yes, scene sequestered, varied, wild,
So form'd to soothe Affliction's child,
Sweet Borrowdale! to thee I'll fly,
To hush my bosom's ceaseless sigh.
If yet in Nature's store there be
One kind heart-healing balm for me,
Now the long hours are told by sighs,
And sorrow steals health's crimson dyes,--
If aught can smiles and bloom restore,
Ah! surely thine's the precious power!

Then take me to thy world of charms,
And hush my tortured breast's alarms;
Thy scenes with unobtrusive art
Shall steal the mourner from her heart,....
The hands in sorrow claspt unclose,
Bid her sick soul on Heaven repose,
And, soothed by time and nature, hail
Health, peace, and hope in Borrowdale.

poem by Amelia Opie
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Written In Early Youth. The Time,--An Autumnal Evening

O thou wild fancy, check thy wing! No more
Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds explore!
Nor there with happy spirits speed thy light
Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of light;
Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day,
With western peasants hail the morning ray!
Ah! rather bid the perished pleasures move,
A shadowy train, across the soul of love!
O'er disappointment's wintry desert fling
Each flower that wreathed the dewy locks of Spring,
When blushing, like a bride, from hope's trim bower
She leapt, awakened by the pattering shower.

Now sheds the sinking sun a deeper gleam,
Aid, lovely sorceress! aid thy poet's dream!
With fairy wand O bid the maid arise,
Chaste joyance dancing in her bright blue eyes;
As erst when from the Muses' calm abode
I came, with learning's meed not unbestowed:
When, as she twined a laurel round my brow,
And met my kiss, and half returned my vow,
O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrilled heart,
And every nerve confessed the electric dart.
O dear conceit! I see the maiden rise,
Chaste joyance dancing in her bright blue eyes,
When first the lark high-soaring swells his throat
Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the loud note,
I trace her footsteps on the accustomed lawn,
I mark her glancing mid the gleams of dawn.
When the bent flower beneath the night-dew weeps,
And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps,
Amid the paly radiance soft and sad
She meets my lonely path in moon-beams clad.
With her along the streamlet's brink I rove;
With her I list the warblings of the grove;
And seems in each low wind her voice to float
Lone-whispering pity in each soothing note!

Spirits of love! ye heard her name! Obey
The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair,
Whither on clust'ring pinions ye are there,
Where rich snows blossom on the myrtle trees,
Or with fond languishment around my fair
Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her hair;
O heed the spell, and hither wing your way,
Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze!
Spirits! to you the infant maid was given,
Formed by the wondrous alchemy of Heaven!
No fairer maid does love's wide empire know,
No fairer maid e'er heaved the bosom's snow.
A thousand loves around her forehead fly;
A thousand loves sit melting in her eye;
Love lights her smile -- in joy's bright nectar dips
The flamy rose, and plants it on her lips!
Tender, serene, and all devoid of guile,
Soft is her soul, as sleeping infant's smile:
She speaks! and hark that passion-warbled song--
Still, fancy! still those mazy notes prolong.
Sweet as th' angelic harps, whose rapturous falls
Awake the softened echoes of heaven's halls!
O (have I sighed) were mine the wizard's rod,
Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful god!
A flower-entangled arbor I would seem
To shield my love from noontide's sultry beam:
Or bloom a myrtle, from whose od'rous boughs
My love might weave gay garlands for her brows.
When twilight stole across the fading vale,
To fan my love I'd be the evening gale;
Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest,
And flutter my faint pinions on her breast!
On seraph wing I'd float a dream, by night,
To soothe my love with shadows of delight:--
Or soar aloft to be the spangled skies,
And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes!

As when the savage, who his dowsy frame
Had basked beneath the sun's unclouded frame,
Awakes amid the troubles of the air,
The skyey deluge, and white lightning's glare--
Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep,
And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep:--
So tost by storms along life's wild'ring way
Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day,
When by my native brook I wont to rove
While hope with kisses nursed the infant love.

Dear native brook! like peace, so placidly
Smoothing thro' fertile fields thy current meel!
Dear native brook! where first young poesy
Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream,
Where blameless pleasures dimple quiet's cheek,
As water-lilies ripple a slow stream!
Dear native haunts! where virtue still is gay:
Where friendship's fixed star sheds a mellowed ray
Where love a crown of thornless roses wears:
Where softened sorrow smiles within her tears;
And mem'ry, with a vestal's chaste employ,
Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy!
No more your skylarks melting from the sight
Shall thrill th' attuned heart-string with delight:--
No more shall deck your pensive pleasures sweet
With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat.
Yet dear to fancy's eye your varied scene
Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between!
Yet sweet to fancy's ear the warbled song,
That soars on morning's wing your vales among.

Scenes of my hope! the aching eye ye leave
Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of eve!
Tearful and sadd'ning with the saddened blaze
Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze;
Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend,
Till chill and damp the moonless night descend.

poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Ode Written On The First Of December

Tho' now no more the musing ear
Delights to listen to the breeze
That lingers o'er the green wood shade,
I love thee Winter! well.

Sweet are the harmonies of Spring,
Sweet is the summer's evening gale,
Pleasant the autumnal winds that shake
The many-colour'd grove.

And pleasant to the sober'd soul
The silence of the wintry scene,
When Nature shrouds her in her trance

Not undelightful now to roam
The wild heath sparkling on the sight;
Not undelightful now to pace
The forest's ample rounds;

And see the spangled branches shine,
And mark the moss of many a hue
That varies the old tree's brown bark,
Or o'er the grey stone spreads.

The cluster'd berries claim the eye
O'er the bright hollies gay green leaves,
The ivy round the leafless oak
Clasps its full foliage close.

So VIRTUE diffident of strength
Clings to RELIGION'S firmer aid,
And by RELIGION'S aid upheld
Endures calamity.

Nor void of beauties now the spring,
Whose waters hid from summer sun
Have sooth'd the thirsty pilgrim's ear
With more than melody.

The green moss shines with icey glare,
The long grass bends its spear-like form,
And lovely is the silvery scene
When faint the sunbeams smile.

Reflection too may love the hour
When Nature, hid in Winter's grave,
No more expands the bursting bud
Or bids the flowret bloom.

For Nature soon in Spring's best charms
Shall rise reviv'd from Winter's grave.
Again expand the bursting bud,
And bid the flowret bloom.

poem by Robert Southey
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Farewell to Ballochmyle

The Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee,
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,
But nature sicken'd on the e'e.
Thro' faded groves Maria sang,
Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while;
And aye the wild-wood ehoes rang,
Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle!

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers,
Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair
Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;
Fareweel the bonie banks of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!

poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Nature's Child...

She loves to tread the solitudes,
The forests and the trackless woods,
Where nature, undisturbed by man,
Pursues her voluntary plan.

Where nature's chemistry distills
The fountains and the laughing birds,
She loves to quaff her sparkling wine,
And breathe the fragrance of the pine.

She loves to dash the crystal dews
From floral shapes of varied hues,
And interweave the modest white
Of plants in spurred garlands bright.

She loves to lie within the shade,
On grassy couch, by nature made,
And listen to the warbling notes
From her fair songsters' feathered throats.

And freed from artificial wants,
She loves to dwell in nature's haunts,
And by the mountain's crystal lake
A rustic habitation make.

She loves to scale the mountain height
And watch the eagle in his flight,
Or gaze upon the azure sea
Of aerial immensity.

She loves the busy marts of trade,
She loves the things which men have made,
Though man has charms, none such as these,
In her the child of nature sees.

poem by Rey Sanidad
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The White Maiden And The Indian Girl

“Child of the Woods, bred in leafy dell,
See the palace home in which I dwell,
With its lofty walls and casements wide,
And objects of beauty on every side;
Now, tell me, dost thou not think it bliss
To dwell in a home as bright as this?”

“Has my pale-faced sister never seen
My home in the pleasant forest green,
With the sunshine weaving its threads of gold
Through the boughs of elm and of maples old,
And soft green moss and wild flowers sweet,
What carpet more fitting for maidens’ feet?”

“Well, see these diamonds of price untold,
These costly trinkets of burnished gold,
With rich soft robes—my daily wear—
These graceful flower-wreaths for my hair;
And now, at least, thou must frankly tell
Thou would’st like such garb and jewels well.”

“The White Lily surely speaks in jest,
For has she not seen me gaily dressed?
Bright beads and rich wampum belts are mine,
Which by far these paltry stones outshine,
Whilst heron plumes, fresh flowers and leaves,
Are fairer than scentless buds like these.”

“But, Forest Maiden, to this my home
What sights—what sounds of beauty come;
Pictures of loveliness—paintings rare—
All the charms that art can bestow are there,
With ravishing music of harp and song,
Sweet notes that to gifted souls belong.”

“The wild birds sing in our shady trees,
Mingling their notes with the vesper breeze;
The flow of waters, the wind’s low moan,
Have a music sweet that is all their own;
Whilst surely no tints or colors rare
Can with those of the sky and the wood compare.”

“But what of the winter’s cheerless gloom
When nature sleeps in a snowy tomb,
The storm clouds brooding over head,
Thy song-birds gone—thy wild-flowers dead?
With silence and gloom where’er you roam,
What then, what then, of your forest home?”

“We sing gay songs round our winter fires,
Or list the tales of our gray-haired sires;
When the hunting path has claimed our braves,
We pray to the God of winds and waves;
Or, on snow-shoes swift, we love to go
Over the fields of untrodden snow.”

“Then, I cannot tempt thee here to dwell,
Oh! wayward child of the forest dell,
To leave thy wandering, restless life,
With countless dangers and hardships rife
For a home of splendor such as this,
Where thy days would be a dream of bliss?”

“No, sister, it cannot my heart engage,
I would worry to death of this gilded cage
And the high close walls of each darkened room,
Heavy with stifling, close perfume;
Back to the free, fresh woods let me hie,
Amid them to live,—amid them to die.”

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Blackbird's Song

The blackbird's song it takes me far away
To northern Land and to a distant day
His kin birds sang all day until sundown
In leafy groves just out of Millstreet Town.

A blackbird piping on a blackwood tree
Awake the nostalgic memories in me
Again I walk the lush green fields in Spring
And hear the wild birds on the hedgerows sing.

Bluebells bloom by the hedge by the bohreen
And cock pheasant often heard though seldom seen
In the knee high rushes clap his wings and crow
By their calls and songs the birds you get to know.

The distance from the home fields may be long
But whenever the migrant hear the blackbird's song
He or she will see the lushness brought by rain
And walk through fields where wild flowers bloom again.

To it the blackbird's song has a nostalgic ring
It takes the migrant to a distant Spring
And though far distant the Homeland near 'twould seem
And the dipper's song is echoing in the stream.

I thought this thing nostalgia I'd outgrown
But the blackbird's song it carries me back home
And I walk the high fields where I walked before
Up to the hill through the wood at Claramore

poem by Francis Duggan
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Our Canadian Woods In Early Autumn

I have passed the day ’mid the forest gay,
In its gorgeous autumn dyes,
Its tints as bright and as fair to the sight
As the hues of our sunset skies;
And the sun’s glad rays veiled by golden haze,
Streamed down ’neath its arches grand,
And with magic power made scene and hour
Like a dream of Faerie Land.

The emerald sheen of the maple green
Is turned to deep, rich red;
And the boughs entwine with the crimson vine
That is climbing overhead;
While, like golden sheaves, the saffron leaves
Of the sycamore strew the ground,
’Neath birches old, clad in shimmering gold,
Or the ash with red berries crowned.

Stately and tall, o’er its sisters all,
Stands the poplar, proud and lone,
Every silvery leaf in restless grief
Laments for the summer flown;
While each oak and elm of the sylvan realm,
In brilliant garb arrayed,
With each other vie, ’neath the autumn sky,
In beauty of form and shade

When wearied the gaze with the vivid blaze
Of rich tints before it spread—
Gay orange and gold, with shades untold
Of glowing carmine and red—
It can turn ’mid the scene to the sombre green
Of the fir, the hemlock, the pine,
Ever-keeping their hue, and their freshness, too,
’Mid the season’s swift decline.

Though the bird’s sweet song, that the summer long
Hath flowed so sweet and clear
Through the cool, dim shades of our forest glades,
No longer charms the ear,
A witching spell, that will please as well
As his glad notes, may be found
In the solemn hush, or the leaves’ soft rush,
As they thickly strew the ground.

For, though they tell of summer’s farewell,
Of their own decay and doom,
Of the wild storm-cloud and the snow’s cold shroud,
And the days of winter’s gloom,
The heart must yield to the power they wield,—
Alike tender, soothing, gay—
The beauties that gleam and that reign supreme
In our woods, this autumn day.

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Last Rose Of The Fall

Her pink petals strewn upon the grass beside her mother tree
In full bloom a thing of Nature so beautiful to see
Where the gleaners of Nature's decay grubs, slugs and insects crawl
Last week she looked so beautiful the last rose of the Fall.

So bare and thorny looking without her leaves and flowers
The rose tree looks forlorn in the cool Autumn showers
Next Summer again pink roses she will wear
The rose tree in bloom has a beauty that's rare.

The beauty of Nature is seen Worldwide
In town parks and gardens and in the countryside
And Nature herself she lives on every shore
The one destined to live forever more.

For the gleaners of Nature who live on decay
The beautiful rose petals on the grass lay
But the rose whose life span can be measured in hours
Her fate it is not any different to ours.

poem by Francis Duggan
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A Wild Rose

The first wild rose in wayside hedge,
This year I wandering see,
I pluck, and send it as a pledge,
My own Wild Rose, to Thee.

For when my gaze first met thy gaze,
We were knee-deep in June:
The nights were only dreamier days,
And all the hours in tune.

I found thee, like the eglantine,
Sweet, simple, and apart;
And, from that hour, thy smile hath been
The flower that scents my heart.

And, ever since, when tendrils grace
Young copse or weathered bole
With rosebuds, straight I see thy face,
And gaze into thy soul.

A natural bud of love Thou art,
Where, gazing down, I view,
Deep hidden in thy fragrant heart,
A drop of heavenly dew.

Go, wild rose, to my Wild Rose dear;
Bid her come swift and soon.
O would that She were always here!
It then were always June.

poem by Alfred Austin
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Nature's Favorite Color

The green foliage is an attractive sight
On the vast landscape on a clear summer day,
As the white daisies gradually unfold along the side
Of a winding roadway that is somber and gray.

It is a picturesque view that one will readily admit,
Blesses the color of green to the greatest height,
And yet it is a scene that enlightens one's mind
With euphoria and great pleasure and delight.

It is not the beauty of the unfolding rose,
Nor the mellow sunflowers near the old mill,
But the color green - Nature's matchless green
On the highlands that gives one a welcomed thrill.

It is beholding of the color of green,
On the growth of leaves on a swaying tree,
And on the landscape far and wide indeed,
As green is Nature's favorite color for all to see.
.

poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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Wild Flowers Of Australia

Oh say not that no perfume dwells;
The wilding flowers among,
Say not that in the forest dells
Is heard no voice of song.

The air is laden with the scent
Borne from the clustering flower,
With which the wattle is besprent;
Like Danae’s golden shower.

And silv’ry wattles bending low,
Sweet incense scatter far—
When night-winds kiss the pensile bough,
Beneath the evening star.

And there are flowers of varying dye;
Now white, now blushing red,
Their beauteous blossoms charm the eye,
And fragrant odours shed.

There’s perfume breath’d from Austral flowers,—
And melody is there
Not such as in far Albion’s bowers
Falls on th’ accustom’d ear.

But thrilling snatches of wild song,
Pour’d forth from lonely glen—
Where winds the hidden creek along
Far from the haunts of men.

And hoarser notes in wild woods heard
Sound like strange harmonies,
As flashes past the bright-winged bird
Gleaming in azure skies.

Then say not that no perfume dwells,
The wilding flowers among;
Say not that in the forest dells
Is heard no voice of song!

poem by Caroline Carleton
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The Brandywine

My foot has climb'd the rocky summit's height,
And in mute rapture, from its lofty brow,
Mine eye is gazing round me with delight,
On all of beautiful, above, below:
The fleecy smoke-wreath upward curling slow,
The silvery waves half hid with bowering green,
That far beneath in gentle murmurs flow,
Or onward dash in foam and sparkling sheen,—
While rocks and forest-boughs hide half the distant scene.

In sooth, from this bright wilderness 't is sweet
To look through loop-holes form'd by forest boughs,
And view the landscape far beneath the feet,
Where cultivation all its aid bestows,
And o'er the scene an added beauty throws;
The busy harvest group, the distant mill,
The quiet cattle stretch'd in calm repose,
The cot, half seen behind the sloping hill,—
All mingled in one scene with most enchanting skill.

The very air that breathes around my cheek,
The summer fragrance of my native hills,
Seems with the voice of other times to speak,
And, while it each unquiet feeling stills,
My pensive soul with hallow'd memories fills:
My fathers’ hall is there; their feet have press'd
The flower-gemm'd margin of these gushing rills,
When lightly on the water's dimpled breast,
Their own light bark beside the frail canoe would rest.

The rock was once your dwelling-place, my sires!
Or cavern scoop'd within the green hill's side;
The prowling wolf fled far your beacon fires,
And the kind Indian half your wants supplied;
While round your necks the wampum belt he tied,
He bade you on his lands in peace abide,
Nor dread the wakening of the midnight brand,
Or aught of broken faith to loose the peace-belt's band.

Oh! if there is in beautiful and fair,
A potency to charm, a power to bless;
If bright blue skies and music-breathing air,
And nature in her every varied dress
Of peaceful beauty and wild loveliness,
Can shed across the heart one sunshine ray,
Then others, too, sweet stream, with only less
Than mine own joy, shall gaze, and bear away
Some cherish'd thought of thee for many a coming day.

But yet not utterly obscure thy banks,
Nor all unknown to history's page thy name;
For there wild war hath pour'd his battle ranks,
And stamp'd in characters of blood and flame,
Thine annals in the chronicles of fame.
The wave that ripples on, so calm and still,
Hath trembled at the war-cry's loud acclaim,
The cannon's voice hath roll'd from hill to hill,
And ‘midst thy echoing vales the trump hath sounded shrill.

My country's standard waved on yonder height,
Her red cross banner England there display'd,
And there the German, who, for foreign fight,
Had left his own domestic hearth, and made
War, with its horrors and its blood, a trade,
Amidst the battle stood; and all the day,
The bursting bomb, the furious cannonade,
The bugle's martial notes, the musket's play,
In mingled uproar wild, resounded far away.

Thick clouds of smoke obscured the clear bright sky,
And hung above them like a funeral pall,
Shrouding both friend and foe, so soon to lie
Like brethren slumbering in one father's hall.
The work of death went on, and when the fall
Of night came onward silently, and shed
A dreary hush, where late was uproar all,
How many a brother's heart in anguish bled
O'er cherish'd ones, who there lay resting with the dead.

Unshrouded and uncoffin'd they were laid
Within the soldier's grave, e'en where they fell;
At noon they proudly trod the field—the spade
At night dug out their resting-place—and well
And calmly did they slumber, though no bell
Peal'd over them its solemn music slow;
The night-winds sung their only dirge, their knell
Was but the owlet's boding cry of woe,
The flap of night-hawk's wing, and murmuring waters’ flow.

But it is over now,—the plough hath rased
All trace of where war's wasting hand hath been:
No vestige of the battle may be traced,
Save where the share, in passing o'er the scene,
Turns up some rusted ball; the maize is green
On what was once the death-bed of the brave;
The waters have resumed their wonted sheen,
The wild bird sings in cadence with the wave,
And naught remains to show the sleeping soldier's grave.

A pebble stone that on the war-field lay,
And a wild-rose that blossom'd brightly there,
Were all the relics that I bore away,
To tell that I had trod the scene of war,
When I had turn'd my footsteps homeward far—
These may seem childish things to some; to me
They shall be treasured ones; and, like the star
That guides the sailor o'er the pathless sea,
They shall lead back my thoughts, loved Brandywine, to thee.

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The White China Flower Blooming One Morning

outside the fence of this old house where
some flowers grow in the wild
along the rugger path
i see this little boy cutting the stem
of the white china flower
all in bloom this early morning
and i feel this sense of innocent cruelty
which he did
to destroy nature's beauty
unprotected by the hands of the uneducated
young creatures

i could have told him about the phenomenology
of the real beauty
of things untouched and uncut from their own branches
their blooms facing the sun with all
unhampered freedom

but the little brown boy already run away.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Profusion

In bloom, the Rose of Sharon, with its honey yellow hue,
Along with the graceful Jasmine, Clematis and Lilac too.
Followed by the Buddleia, that the butterflies so love,
Sedum, Quince and Penstemon, and the tall Foxglove.

With Crocosmia of orange and lime green Hosta bright,
London Pride, Pansy, Primula, what joy they all invite.
Geraniums in profusion, charm the glancing eye,
And standing proud, as if on guard, the grand gladioli.

Lily of the Valley with dainty bell shapes, white,
Japanese Anemones that close their heads at night.
Lavender and Fuchsia plus Hydrangea pink and blue,
All these lovely flowers grow in my backyard venue.

Pleasure is in the looking and seeing such a show,
A palate of such beauty, like the sweep of a rainbow,
Nature in all its excellence, dresses this vibrant scene.
In one small English garden these genre thus convene.

poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wild Rose And The Snowdrop

The Snowdrop is the prophet of the flowers;
It lives and dies upon its bed of snows;
And like a thought of spring it comes and goes,
Hanging its head beside our leafless bowers.
The sun's betrothing kiss it never knows,
Nor all the glowing joy of golden showers;
But ever in a placid, pure repose,
More like a spirit with its look serene,
Droops its pale cheek veined thro' with infant green.

Queen of her sisters is the sweet Wild Rose,
Sprung from the earnest sun and ripe young June;
The year's own darling and the Summer's Queen!
Lustrous as the new-throned crescent moon.
Much of that early prophet look she shows,
Mixed with her fair espoused blush which glows,
As if the ethereal fairy blood were seen;
Like a soft evening over sunset snows,
Half twilight violet shade, half crimson sheen.

Twin-born are both in beauteousness, most fair
In all that glads the eye and charms the air;
In all that wakes emotions in the mind
And sows sweet sympathies for human kind.
Twin-born, albeit their seasons are apart,
They bloom together in the thoughtful heart;
Fair symbols of the marvels of our state,
Mute speakers of the oracles of fate!

For each, fulfilling nature's law, fulfils
Itself and its own aspirations pure;
Living and dying; letting faith ensure
New life when deathless Spring shall touch the hills.
Each perfect in its place; and each content
With that perfection which its being meant:
Divided not by months that intervene,
But linked by all the flowers that bud between.
Forever smiling thro' its season brief,
The one in glory and the one in grief:
Forever painting to our museful sight,
How lowlihead and loveliness unite.

Born from the first blind yearning of the earth
To be a mother and give happy birth,
Ere yet the northern sun such rapture brings,
Lo, from her virgin breast the Snowdrop springs;
And ere the snows have melted from the grass,
And not a strip of greensward doth appear,
Save the faint prophecy its cheeks declare,
Alone, unkissed, unloved, behold it pass!
While in the ripe enthronement of the year,
Whispering the breeze, and wedding the rich air
With her so sweet, delicious bridal breath, -
Odorous and exquisite beyond compare,
And starr'd with dews upon her forehead clear,
Fresh-hearted as a Maiden Queen should be
Who takes the land's devotion as her fee, -
The Wild Rose blooms, all summer for her dower,
Nature's most beautiful and perfect flower.

poem by George Meredith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spirit of Poetry, The

There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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