The Moat
AROUND this lichened home of hoary peace,
Invulnerable in its glassy moat,
A breath of ghostly summers seems to float
And murmur mid the immemorial trees.
The tender slopes, where cattle browse at ease,
Swell softly, like a pigeon's emerald throat;
And, self-oblivious, Time forgets to note
The flight of velvet-footed centuries.
The very sunlight hushed within the close,
Sleeps indolently by the Yew's slow shade;
Still as a relic some old Master made
The jewelled peacock's rich enamel glows;
And on yon mossy wall that youthful rose
Blooms like a rose that never means to fade.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Welcome To The Nations
PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876
BRIGHT on the banners of lily and rose
Lo! the last sun of our century sets!
Wreathe the black cannon that scowled on our foes,
All but her friendships the nation forgets
All but her friends and their welcome forgets!
These are around her; but where are her foes?
Lo, while the sun of her century sets,
Peace with her garlands of lily and rose!
Welcome! a shout like the war trumpet's swell
Wakes the wild echoes that slumber around
Welcome! it quivers from Liberty's bell;
Welcome! the walls of her temple resound!
Hark! the gray walls of her temple resound
Fade the far voices o'er hillside and dell;
Welcome! still whisper the echoes around;
Welcome I still trembles on Liberty's bell!
Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea
Yours are the garlands of peace we entwine;
Welcome, once more, to the land of the free,
Shadowed alike by the pahn and the pine;
Softly they murmur, the palm and the pine,
'Hushed is our strife, in the land of the free';
Over your children their branches entwine,
Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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A Season of Wine and Roses
Remember when the wine was red,
and the rose was red, as well ~
and how the two were wed as one,
when the sunlight softly fell.
The pinkened kiss, the gentle blush,
beneath a soft, green canopy ~
and wine flowed there beside the rose,
'til sunlight set on autumn's eve.
And there within the autumn's breath,
came an orange and golden kiss ~
that found the wine and lovely rose,
beguiled by summer's bliss...
remembering when the wine was sweet,
and the rose was a budding bloom ~
and velvet was the reddened wine,
when the red rose danced in June.
Thinly brown, with winter's death,
the vine and thorn entwine ~
and wait impatiently for spring,
when, once more, a life they'll find.
And now upon the chilling wind,
there's a whisper that gently fell ~
'Remember when the wine was red,
and the rose was red, as well'...
poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
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Ancestors
Behold these jewelled, merchant Ancestors,
Foregathered in some chancellery of death;
Calm, provident, discreet, they stroke their beards
And move their faces slowly in the gloom,
And barter monstrous wealth with speech subdued,
Lustreless eyes and acquiescent lids.
And oft in pauses of their conference,
They listen to the measured breath of night’s
Hushed sweep of wind aloft the swaying trees
In dimly gesturing gardens; then a voice
Climbs with clear mortal song half-sad for heaven.
A silent-footed message flits and brings
The ghostly Sultan from his glimmering halls;
A shadow at the window, turbaned, vast,
He leans; and, pondering the sweet influence
That steals around him in remembered flowers,
Hears the frail music wind along the slopes,
Put forth, and fade across the whispering sea.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Roses Rising
I keep with me
a dying rose
which sleeps beside me
on the pillow.
Once alive it lies now in between
life and my pillow-side breathing
which doesn't allow it to expire
even though it should.
It fell in a swift spiral
from your funeral pyre
and I plucked it up
as a sign
you gave
that we'd remain
for ever close;
forever in love.
On the first night
it quivered from my breath
and I breathed more
and seemingly
that rose contained your soul
and was inspired nightly
to new life
from my warm expirations.
They all think
I am grief-drowned
and will recover soon
but no
they don't understand.
It is not the rose I keep
but the soul
within that sleeps
beside me
each night since.
If spirits live,
and I am sure yours does,
mine reaches yours
in our sleeping rose.
Nineteen
its clear
was too soon
for you to go;
rather you take
refuge with me
each night
disguised as rose
until it truly comes time
for you to go.
I pray each night
hoping that
it is not too soon
but when the time comes
there will be a flight
of two souls;
both rising quietly
in our sleep.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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First rose
A heart of youthful year was yearning,
Crying out the pain; the burning
Tears would e’er remain until
An answer from the man would see them die.
A sympathetic mirror blessed her –
Softened up the curves, caressed her
Skin to help regain a calm –
Assuage a heaving breast and blushing eye.
And through a struggling mind, a chiming:
Someone at the door; the timing
Perfect and exquisite in the
Reconciliation of her woes.
She took the oak to make the parting,
‘Here! ’ a presentation startling.
Drawing deep through radiant lips, she
Kissed her very dream: a crimson rose.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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There Is A Rose...
There Is A Rose...
There is a rose that blooms for me
Tucked away so quietly
Hidden for only my eye to see
And holding on to my heart's key
There is a rose that blooms for me
There is a rose that blooms for you
Just beyond your loving view
Waiting to be born anew
Waking to your heart's cue
There is a rose that blooms for you
13 Jan 2008
Rose at Nightfall
"God wants to know the divine goodness in us." Thomas Merton
Red rose flames
in shade of day's end.
night sifts gently
through dark trees;
but the rose!
the rose yet blooms;
defies the fall
of night's certain pall.
poem by Steven Federle
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A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
Not only because of its colour
And not only because of it fragrance
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
Also because of the thorns
It holds very close
A gain is a gain is a gain is a gain
Not only because of its pleasure
And the attendant treasure
A gain is a gain is a gain is a gain
Also because of the pain
That, as a part with gain does remain
A joy is a joy is a joy is a joy
Not only because of the emotional elevation
And sorrow attenuation
A joy is a joy is a joy is a joy
Because of the efforts did you employ
A success is a success is a success is a success
Not only because another milestone cross
And because of the new fame you will soon possess
A success is a success is a success is a success
Because you did sweat in the process
A peace is a peace is a peace is a peace
Not only because of the tranquility
And because of the balanced ability
A peace is a peace is a peace is a peace
Because of the war waged against
Disturbance and instability
Full impact of a thing comes to full visibility
Only when its contrast is held in close vicinity
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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A Love Song
I gave her a rose in early June,
Fed with the sun and the dew,
Each petal I said is a note in the tune,
The rose is the whole tune through and through,
The tune is the whole red-hearted rose,
Flush and form, honey and hue,
Lull with the cadence and throb to the close,
I love you, I love you, I love you.
She gave me a rose in early June,
Fed with the sun and the dew,
Each petal she said is a mount in the moon,
The rose is the whole moon through and through,
The moon is the whole pale-hearted rose,
Round and radiance, burnish and blue,
Break in the flood-tide that murmurs and flows,
I love you, I love you, I love you.
This is our love in early June,
Fed with the sun and the dew,
Moonlight and roses hid in a tune,
The roses are music through and through,
The moonlight falls in the breath of the rose,
Light and cadence, honey and hue,
Mingle, and murmur, and flow to the close,
I love you, I love you, I love you.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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A Dozen Roses
A dozen roses I give to you my friend
A gift that seems so small
But they represent so much
Our friendship most of all.
A rose for the friendship
A rose for the touch
A rose for the trust we share
Our sharing means so much.
A rose for the kindness
And the deep caring you show
A rose for the comfort given
When I've been feeling low.
A rose for the laughter
How it makes your eyes shine
A rose for the dreams we share
It's amazing how they intertwine.
A rose for the deep respect
You give to me with ease
A rose for the love we feel
And how you wish to please.
A rose for your compassion
That has helped me in so many ways
A rose for bringing me sunshine
That has brightened all my days.
The last rose is the best
For it stands so proud and tall
This rose represents you
My best friend of all.
poem by Joyce Regna
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Such a Rose In The Heart Of Rose
Such a Rose In The Heart Of Rose) it
blooms in my heart that rose(upon
me that grows, no matter where I leave
my heart dear(it loves on me to grow.
Bound up in thorns my love, I lay on beds
of them forever waiting to grow, with you
dear, as I bend to smell, that one red rose.
My heart is your rose, it climbs, and beats
when pricked, by the thorn, to be carried up
to every rose on the bush.My rose, your heart,
it blooms in love, each beat lifts to crown the
the heart, as the sun heats them both, to feed
each root that folds my heart back into the rose.
Such a Rose In The Heart Of Rose;
poem by Is It Poetry
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A Rose in the heart of rose
A Rose In The Heart Of Rose
it blooms in my heart
that rose upon me that grows,
no matter where I leave my heart
dear it loves on me to grow.
Bound up in thorns my love,
I lay on beds of them forever
waiting to grow, with you
dear, as I bend to smell, that one red rose.
My heart is your rose,
it climbs, and beats
when pricked, by the thorn,
to be carried up
to every rose on the bush.
My rose, your heart,
it blooms in love, each beat lifts to
crown the the heart, as the sun heats them
both, to feed each root that folds
my heart back into the rose.
Such a Rose In The Heart Of Rose
poem by Anees Akbar
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The Deserted House
To the sweet memory of Sidney Lanier
The old house stands deserted, gray,
With sharpened gables high in air,
And deep-set lattices, all gay
With massive arch and framework rare;
And o’er it is a silence laid,
That feeling, one grows sore afraid.
The eaves are dark with heavy vines;
The steep roof wears a coat of moss;
The walls are touched with dim designs
Of shadows moving slow across;
The balconies are damp with weeds,
Lifting as close as streamside reeds.
The garden is a loved retreat
Of melancholy flowers, of lone
And wild-mouthed herbs, in companies sweet,
’Mid desolate green grasses thrown;
And in its gaps the hoar stone wall
Lets sprays of tangled ivy fall.
The pebbled paths drag, here and there,
Old lichened faces, overspun
With silver spider-threads—they wear
A silence sad to look upon:
It is so long since happy feet
Made them to thrill with pressure sweet.
’Mid drear but fragrant shrubs there stands
A saint of old made mute in stone,
With tender eyes and yearning hands,
And mouth formed in a sorrow lone;
’Tis thick with dust, as long ago
’Twas thick with fairest blooms that grow.
Swallows are whirring here and there;
And oft a little soft wind blows
A hundred odors down the air;
The bees hum ’round the red, last rose;
And ceaselessly the crickets shrill
Their tunes, and yet, it seems so still.
Or else, from out the distance steals,
Half heard, the tramp of horses, or
The bleak and harsh stir of slow wheels
Bound cityward; but more and more,
As these are hushed, or yet increase,
About the old house clings its peace.
poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
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The Sage
Sequoia, growing grandly
Out of the long ago,
Beloved of Time, whose sons
March by to measures slow,
How tenderly you cherish
All little lives below!
Your mighty column pillars
The blue dome of the sky.
Your foliage plumes with greenness
The clouds that pass on high.
Yet here below slim lilies grow,
And here at peace am I.
How have you won Time over—
That lord of dark renown?
His hand, that withers all things,
Has given your brow a crown.
From your crest forty centuries
Now upon me look down.
Yes, all the lordly ages
Your youth immortal knows,
Yet softly here you fashion
A carpet for the rose,
And smoothly spread a mossy bed
Under my deep repose.
You have defied the lightnings—
They rent and scarred in vain.
Fierce fires have stripped you naked-
You made your peace with pain,
And bloomed again in beauty
To baffle death's disdain.
Where do you win your secret
Of life untroubled, free,
And wise with all the wisdom
Of time's democracy?
What do you hear this many a year?—
Whisper the song to me !
poem by Harriet Monroe
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A dozen Roses
A dozen Roses I give you my friend A gift that seems smal but its represents so much Our friendship most of all
A rose for friendship
A rose for touch
A rose for the touch we sgare our sharing means so much
A rose for kindness and the deep caring you show
A rose for the comfort your given when I've Been low.
A rose for the laughter how its makes your eyes shine.
for the dreams we share Its amazing how they intertwine.
A rose for the deep respect you give me with ease
A rose for the love we share and Now you wish to please.
A Rose for your compassion that has helped me in so many ways
A Rose for the sunshine you bring to me to make my days so bright
poem by Taylor owens
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One Rose
Rose
One Rose
Two Rose
Twelve Rose
One for each bruise
One Rose
Two Rose
Twelve Rose
One for each time you cheated
One Rose
Two Rose
Twelve Rose
One for each time you forced me
One Rose
Two Rose
Twelve Rose
One for each pointless arguement
One Rose
Two Rose
Twelve Rose
One for each crime
One Rose
Two Rose
Twelve Rose
One for each time you try to end me
One Rose
Two Rose
Twelve Rose
How many more can I live through?
poem by Lexie Night
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Dawn
O KEEP the world forever at the dawn,
Ere yet the opals, cobweb-strung, have dried,
Ere yet too bounteous gifts have marred the morn
Or fading stars have died.
O, keep the eastern gold no wider than
An angel's finger-span,
And hush the increasing thunder of the sea
To murmuring melody
In those fair coves where tempests ne'er should be.
Hold back the line of shoreward-sweeping surge
And veil each deep sea-pool in pearlier mist,
Ere yet the silver ripples on the verge
Have turned to amethyst.
Fling back the chariot of encroaching day
And call the winds away
Ere yet they sigh, and let the hastening sun
Along his path in heaven no higher run,
But show through all the years his golden rim
With shadows lingering dim
Forever o'er the world awaiting him.
Hold every bird with still and drowsy wing,
That in the breathless hush no clamorous throat
Shall break the peace that hangs on everything
With shrill awakening note;
Keep fast the half-seen beauties of the rose
In undisturbed repose,
Check all the iris buds where they unfold
Impatient from their hold,
And close the cowslips' cups of honeyed gold.
Keep all things hushed, so hushed we seem to hear
The sounds of low-swung clouds that sweep the trees;
Let now no harsher music reach the ear,
No earthlier sounds than these,
When whispering shadows move within the grass,
And airy tremors pass
Through all the earth with life awakening thrilled,
And so forever stilled,
Too sweet in promise e'er to be fulfilled.
O keep the world forever at the dawn,
Yet, keeping so, let nothing lifeless seem,
But hushed, as if the miracle of morn
Were trembling in its dream.
Some shadowy moth may pass with downy flight
And fade before the sight,
While in the unlightened darkness of the wall
The chirping crickets call;
From forest pools where fragrant lilies are
A breath shall pass afar,
And o'er the crested pine shall hang one star.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Just One Rose...
that's a homework i need you to tell me if i should hand it to the teacher or not...(:
just one rose, a pretty rose...
just one rose for me with no coze...
just one rose pure and true...
just one rose for me is all i can do...
just one rose somewhere out there...
just one rose for me to care...
just one rose when dark days prevail...
just one rose when people only use petrail...
just one rose and all the time...
just one rosefor me is a crime...
poem by rose of death XxX
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Telling the Bees
Here is the place; right over the hill
Runs the path I took;
You can see the gap in the old wall still,
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
And the poplars tall;
And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall.
There are the beehives ranged in the sun;
And down by the brink
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun,
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.
A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
Heavy and slow;
And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,
And the same brook sings of a year ago.
There 's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
And the June sun warm
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.
I mind me how with a lover's care
From my Sunday coat
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.
Since we parted, a month had passed, --
To love, a year;
Down through the beeches I looked at last
On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.
I can see it all now, -- the slantwise rain
Of light through the leaves,
The sundown's blaze on her window-pane,
The bloom of her roses under the eaves.
Just the same as a month before, --
The house and the trees,
The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, --
Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black.
Trembling, I listened: the summer sun
Had the chill of snow;
For I knew she was telling the bees of one
Gone on the journey we all must go!
Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps
For the dead to-day:
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
The fret and the pain of his age away."
But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,
With his cane to his chin,
The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
Sung to the bees stealing out and in.
And the song she was singing ever since
In my ear sounds on: --
"Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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A Rose Will Fade
You were always a dreamer, Rose - red Rose,
As you swung on your perfumed spray,
Swinging, and all the world was true,
Swaying, what did it trouble you?
A rose will fade in a day.
Why did you smile to his face, red Rose,
As he whistled across your way?
And all the world went mad for you,
All the world it knelt to woo.
A rose will bloom in a day.
I gather your petals, Rose - red Rose,
The petals he threw away.
And all the world derided you;
Ah! the world, how well it knew
A rose will fade in a day!
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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