Related quotes: AS a quiet little seedling...

The Seedling

AS a quiet little seedling
Lay within its darksome bed,
To itself it fell a-talking,
And this is what it said:

'I am not so very robust,
But I'll do the best I can;'
And the seedling from that moment
Its work of life began.

So it pushed a little leaflet
Up into the light of day,
To examine the surroundings
And show the rest the way.

The leaflet liked the prospect,
So it called its brother, Stem;
Then two other leaflets heard it,
And quickly followed them.

To be sure, the haste and hurry
Made the seedling sweat and pant;
But almost before it knew it
It found itself a plant.

The sunshine poured upon it,
And the clouds they gave a shower;
And the little plant kept growing
Till it found itself a flower.

Little folks, be like the seedling,
Always do the best you can;
Every child must share life's labor
Just as well as every man.

And the sun and showers will help you
Through the lonesome, struggling hours,
Till you raise to light and beauty
Virtue's fair, unfading flowers.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Related quotes

Without shoots

You and your parents are
Shoot and roots of a seedling.
You and your children are
Root and shoots of a seedling.
Connectivity between
Root and shoot is original.
So is the bonding between
Shoots and root as natural.

Husband and wife are
Scion and stock of a graft.
Connectivity between
Scion and stock is artificial.
So is the bonding between
Husband and wife.
The old couple will know this.
Being childless is the one without shoots.
28.12.2011

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Life is a strife

...it's a seedling to grow
stirred up into the sky
untill 't will fully show
it's ableness to fly.........

Madrason 19-12-1993

poem by Madrason writer
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The Seed in the Womb- Baby Alive!

There is a dormant life, unseen,
In every seed!
When sowed in soil that’s wet,
Under the bright rays of the sun,
It sprouts into a seedling,
With overt life!

It grows into a sapling-
A miniature plant,
Which grows into a plant or tree,
Laden with flowers, fruits and seeds,
And happy are both,
God and mankind.

Do farmers destroy seeds?
Do they destroy sprouted seeds?
Do they pull off seedlings?
Do they remove saplings?
And all have life,
From Creator!

There is an innate life, unseen
In each zygote!
On nidation in womb,
Under the loving care of God,
It grows, becoming embryo:
With overt life!

Which grows into a fetus-
Miniature human being!
Bubbling with life;
And grows into a human babe,
That should be born,
To grow into an adult (male/ female) ,
Who can now have, children,
Maintaining human race,
And happy are both,
God and mankind!

Should one destroy zygotes?
Should one destroy embryos? (Abortion)
Should one murder the fetus? (Feticide, Abortion))
Should one kill the babe, unborn? (Infanticide)
And all have life,
From Creator!

Life is life- plant or beast!
Life is life- in seed or ovum / sperm!
Life is life- small or big!
Life is life- in utero or ex!
Life is life- unborn or born!
Life is life- child or adult!

Would anyone sane destroy
A growing plant?
Would anyone sane cut down
A little tree?

Does any woman have the right
To abort her child?
Can any man or woman
Murder own child?

‘God gives the ‘seed’ life in the womb,
None dare take this out, except Him.
God makes the seed grow in the womb;
No one dare turn the womb, a tomb!
Abortion is murder, most foul
Of a baby in the womb! ’

‘THOU SHALT NOT KILL- saith the Lord.’

poem by John Celes
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Aging thickens ego

To an oak seedling, even a shrub looks huge.
To a seasoned oak, even a banyan is dwarf.
One’s age advancing, heroes are disappearing.
The aging gives the ego thickenings.
30.03.2010

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Autumn leaf loss sere,
enwrapping next year's seedling,
ensures spear sprouting

(8 November 2008)

haiku by Jonathan Robin (08 November 2008)
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[My Little Green Plant]

I have a plant in my house.
Not a tree a shrub ore a shrew.
But a plant.
It's green and red and sparkle blue.
Healthy clean and sticky like glue.
Bold beautifully and fragrant to.
My little green plant, how I love you.

I love my plant all stretched out high.
When it's flowers open it reveals a surprise
Just imagine it as you close you're eyes.
My little green plant, always on my mind.

My plant is thirsty it needs special care.
Nutrients and light, without it would die.
Like a child growing up ill always be there.
12 weeks to grow, and not a care.
3 feed tall and producing air.
My little green plant with little red hairs.

The time has come that I must say good by,
my little green plant has grown up right.
I'll trim it nice and hold on tight,
my little green plant makes me happiest tonight.
I'll sow the seed and sign the deed,
my little green plants one hell of a weed.

Come on now people get your minds out of the gutter..... I'm just talking about sage! :)

poem by Seth Morrow
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Blindness

In a stage-coach, where late I chanced to be,
A little quiet girl my notice caught;
I saw she looked at nothing by the way,
Her mind seemed busy on some childish thought.

I with an old man's courtesy addressed
The child, and called her pretty dark-eyed maid,
And bid her turn those pretty eyes and see
The wide extended prospect. 'Sir,' she said,

'I cannot see the prospect, I am blind.'
Never did tongue of child utter a sound
So mournful, as her words fell on my ear.
Her mother then related how she found

Her child was sightless. On a fine bright day
She saw her lay her needlework aside,
And, as on such occasions mothers will,
For leaving off her work began to chide.

'I'll do it when 'tis daylight, if you please,
I cannot work, mamma, now it is night.'
The sun shone bright upon her when she spoke,
And yet her eyes received no ray of light.

poem by Charles Lamb
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Peeping a window

Part 1

From inside you peep out
from outside you peep in;
to see the desired scene
keeping you unseen.

Part 2

Me and my friend were peeping
Through the same window
Having heartful bliss getting
a glimpse of her or her shadow

He did not know my deed
I did not know his deed
One day we got exposed
later window was closed

For him I gave up my desire
for me he sacrificed his longing
Our first seed of love was buried
before growing to seedling.

poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Multicolored Butterfly

There was a multicolored butterfly flying in the air
A multicolored butterfly- who did not have a care.
Going from flower to flower for all the world to see
The beauties of nature made for you and me.
People stopping and talking and gazing upon its wings
This is one of the wonders GOD gave us.
And such a beautiful thing.

This multicolored butterfly flew around my head
I knew if I grabbed it- then soon it would be dead.
They have a life expectancy of seventy two hours you see
And that is the reason it has to be free.

They have a place called butterfly world
In a town called coconut creek
I knew I had to go there
I had to take a peek.

They had butterflies from all over the world
And a quick class to show, all the boys and girls.
There is so much about butterflies that I didn’t know
They can see colors of red, yellow, and green
But nothing in between.
They sip nectars from flowers through their tongues
And smell through their antennae, and taste with
Their feet, and breathe through the sides of their bodies
That in itself is a learning treat.
So to this butterfly that’s flying around my head
I salute and praise your beauty till the moment
That you’re dead.
I will mourn for you for the short time that you lived.
Because in that time, you had so much to give.

poem by Louis Rams
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Pain is a plenty harried thing

Pain is a plenty harried thing,
It too is in plentiful pain.
Pain too prays for reprieve from the Lord,
It too wishes for a merciful end;
Pain has pained itself with the painful realization,
That it is the root of the cause of the source of all pain;
That is why pain is a plenty harried thing,
For it too is in plentiful pain.

Pain is a plenty harried thing,
It too hopes that the morrow starts at leisure
And that maybe it could rise (one day) from within itself
And become its prodigal brother: Pleasure.
We blame pain, we hate pain but we all go seeking it,
Pain doesn’t stalk us, we stalk pain;
If it wasn’t for us, Pain would yet be an unknown hermit,
For it too is in plentiful pain.

Pain is a plenty harried thing,
It too gazes into the stars and watches the days go by without reform;
Pain grieves for the pain it feels deep inside,
Pain too struggles against exploit and harm.
Pain is the seedling of the plant of the tree,
Of Life, which is nothing without this pain;
And I do not crave Pain and it does not crave me,
For it too is in plentiful pain.

poem by Samah Khan
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My Search For Beauty

I went in search of beauty
and with feeling looked around,
I noticed much in my path
where beauty could be found.

It went above human appearance
and feelings that run deep,
it wasn't just in my dreams
when I got my beauty sleep.

The beauty was felt inside
in a divine and blessed way,
it was in the growing flowers
and the nice things that we say.

I found beauty in the sunshine
and in the clouds up high,
the rain that fell upon the earth
and the lightning in the sky.

It twinkled in the stars at night
and the moon at every phase,
righteousness and gratitude
showed beauty in other ways.

It appeared in the shadows
and the kindness that we share,
I found that beauty was hiding
and some didn't see it there.

Beauty is in good memories
and times spent with a friend,
there are signs of beauty
in the messages we send.

Beauty is seen differently
for some it's in disguise,
but we cannot see true beauty
through another person's eyes.

poem by Shelley Williams
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The Easter Lily

A little child, as winter turned to spring,
Tended a lily-plant with patient care,
Thinking, when she should see it blossoming,
To set it on the chancel-step; that there,
When Easter dawned on Lent, the spotless thing
Might on the feast-day be her offering,
Lifting its own white face to One more fair.

But, as the plant grew upward day by day,
Raising itself from earth towards the sky,
So seemed the child from earth to draw away,
The while she feared to see the lily die;
Unthinking that, ere broke the Easter ray,
She might her own white soul before Him lay
For Whom she sought the flower to sanctify.

Time passed. The lily bloomed not; and the night
Before the feast had come. And so the child
Sent to the church the cherished plant, despite
’T was but an unblown bud; and—reconciled
That on the altar-step, midst flowers white,
Her poor green stalk watched out the silent flight
Of hours until the morn—contented smiled.

• • • • • • • •

Fair broke the dawn upon the altar’s hem
Of lilies, breathing Easter greeting sweet;
But, with the night that so perfected them,
The child’s own spirit fled, the Light to meet
Beyond the heaven’s roseate diadem;
And, with the morning, bloomed upon the stem
The fair, white soul her own had longed to greet!

poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1893)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Miracles Of Transformation

place lived in could be
a harsh barren dessert
where sudden sand storm
can strip our life to bone

God hides great serene
beauty in strange places
to teach hope in inspired
miracles of transformation

there is incredible serene beauty written...
into mysterious timeless dessert places...

once a gardener asked God for two gifts:
a beautiful plant with colourful flowers,
and a butterfly to flutter about the flowers,
to add beauty to his small potted garden:

the gardener excited waited for his flowering plant...
the beautiful butterfly he believed God would give...

the gardener prayed for forty days and forty nights:
God observing devotional faith answered his prayer;
presented him with a cactus plant and a caterpillar;

are you surprised because the gardener asked for,
a beautiful plant with amazing colorful flowers,
yet God answered his prayers with a cactus plant?

God knew the needs of the man’s faithful heart:
secrets written into his patient appreciative soul;
the gardener knew the secret ways of dessert life;

for many days the gardener thanked God for this gift,
of sacred life; to add beauty to his small potted garden:
at dawn dust all hours between; the gardener thanked,
God for the wisdom glory of this special gift bestowed:

soon the cacti bloomed with amazing colourful flowers,
and in the place of the caterpillar there was a beautiful,
stunning butterfly, to flutter about the colourful flowers:

God told that gardener old a new spiritual message.
God said “I will send my only begotten son, to be
born as flesh, like the caterpillar I gave you on the
cactus plant, to walk in the world; my man of faith”

God said “My child how you wondered,
what had happened to the caterpillar?
From where did the butterfly come? ”

God said “This mystery of life I wrote into creation”.

“I envisage transformation from your body of clay
into a body of light; as a miracle as meaningful as
the journey of a caterpillar; for my son will pass
through metamorphosis death into resurrected life!

This journey is my undeserved gift for the seed of Adam!
Original Sin will be defeated through this sinless sacrifice;
of my only begotten son; who will defeat the sting of death!

accept this ransom sacrifice my child as reconciliation;
through the blood of my son to resurrection in heaven.”

that gardener old, knew the cactus plant was the cross;
metamorphosis death was the tomb; flowers the message,

blooming in the world, through work of Holy Spirit; who
spread miraculous testament, the butterfly transformation,
resurrection of Jesus Christ; clay into restored body of light:

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Prelude To A Volume Printed In Raised Letters For The Blind

DEAR friends, left darkling in the long eclipse
That veils the noonday,--you whose finger-tips
A meaning in these ridgy leaves can find
Where ours go stumbling, senseless, helpless, blind.
This wreath of verse how dare I offer you
To whom the garden's choicest gifts are due?
The hues of all its glowing beds are ours,
Shall you not claim its sweetest-smelling flowers?

Nay, those I have I bring you,--at their birth
Life's cheerful sunshine warmed the grateful earth;
If my rash boyhood dropped some idle seeds,
And here and there you light on saucy weeds
Among the fairer growths, remember still
Song comes of grace, and not of human will:
We get a jarring note when most we try,
Then strike the chord we know not how or why;
Our stately verse with too aspiring art
Oft overshoots and fails to reach the heart,
While the rude rhyme one human throb endears
Turns grief to smiles, and softens mirth to tears.
Kindest of critics, ye whose fingers read,
From Nature's lesson learn the poet's creed;
The queenly tulip flaunts in robes of flame,
The wayside seedling scarce a tint may claim,
Yet may the lowliest leaflets that unfold
A dewdrop fresh from heaven's own chalice hold.

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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A Fairy Tale of Sorts

There once was a flower who learned how to think
evolving to harness it's best chance of life
no visible brain and no definite link
to show how or when it fell on its own knife.
For as it evolved it saw chances to rest
relying on beauty for its future seed,
as man, captivated this plant at its best
and so cultivated this true prize indeed.
As the flower developed it petals and sheen
increasingly moving away from its roots
no nectar was needed, no insects were seen
as man took his cuttings, they worked in cahoots.
Till one day the flower changed one stroke too far
assuming the men would attend,
so just as the fate of the Tsaress and Tsar,
the strings of their genes met a quite abrupt end.

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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The Passion Fruit

[The Passion Fruit]

An epic Stanza a Dream if Might the cruel fates play tricks on the love longing mind. For Hope was the plant and Passion the fruit of the hearts implore. And love, Love is the Rain of all growth and for everyday a little rain must Fall.

The Dream of Dreams is to be loved in return by the one you dream of most. And so, her love grew for him as she saw the figure of his shadow in the corridor, and heard the deep soothing sound of his voice. And alas, She sought the longing in her eyes would at one point be returned by his. She knew at this point would be a point of no return.

Love can drive you to do incredible things; it seeks the soul, mind, and the spirit. And just as beauty, love is in the eyes of it’s beholder, for each person love comes differently, by the way they receive it, the way they give it, the way they earn it, and the way they see it. Each is its own plant.

For her it was the Passion Fruit.

She showered this fruit with love, and heartened it with hope. At last the fruit was brimming with Passion.
It was the Passion Fruit.

It was filled with Passion, but it was lacking light.
The light of restoration in which she would finally see the longing in his eyes as they were in hers.
And although she filled it with everything else there was no light, and No plant can survive without light.
Without light there is no hope and without hope there is no plant.

The passion in her eyes became a dull place in a bright world. For in her world there was no light in which to see, and no hope for it to be seen.

And so she faded away.

The day she would leave all passion behind, all hope, and all cares, she told him the story of the Passion Fruit. How it loved, laughed, and lived.

The words she said to him before her final farewell were, “When all seems Dark look for Light for there is always Light you just have to find it. Remember Hope was the plant and Passion the heart’s wish, it’s fruit. And love, Love is the Rain of all growth and for everyday a little rain must Fall.”

“But don’t forget light, for without light you cannot see the rain of love, and without the rain, a plant will cease to exist. I have Finally found my light, but alas I have already gone through a dark tunnel.” These words she uttered before she took her last breath.
He never forgot, for secretly she was his passion, his light, and his rain.

He eventually found another, but he would never love her, for there is only one love, for love is jealous of all others. So, he loved but once and the rest was just of like.

On his last breath he said, “I have found my Light, but at the end of a dark tunnel, for there she is waiting for me, my dream of dreams.”

“My Passion Fruit”

poem by Kelsey Neystel
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My Gardener – To My Teacher

Whenever I think of You
Albeit for a moment or minutes a few
I wonder of the day when nothing I knew
And to learn something I came to You.

Like a Mother
You showered your loving smiles
Gave me your love as your own little Child
Teaching me the values of this mysterious Life
On exploring the creation of Almighty Divine
I never ever in my dream could’ve found
A Teacher as loving and wonderful like mine.

A Teacher who in her beautiful grace
Taught us to win this challenging race
Pouring in the strength and courage we need
Giving rise to a plant from a weak little seed

This plant which you nurtured for so many years
Will bear the flowers of colour so rare
Love of people it shall endear
Spreading its fragrance of knowledge everywhere
Vanishing their sorrow and crying tears
Teaching them to live, love and share.

My life you adorned with happiness and cheer
Like a loving and caring Gardener
You blessed me with your sight immortal
Banishing the darkness and sorrowful fear.

My precious life, I owe to you
Life that whispers something so true
That Teacher as loving and special like you
In this world are indeed very few!

poem by Grace Green
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The Song of the Garden-Toad

Down, down beneath the daisy beds,
O hear the cries of pain!
And moaning on the cinder-path
They're blind amid the rain.
Can murmurs of the worms arise
To higher hearts than mine?
I wonder if that gardener hears
Who made the mold all fine
And packed each gentle seedling down
So carefully in line?

I watched the red rose reaching up
To ask him if he heard
Those cries that stung the evening earth
Till all the rose-roots stirred.
She asked him if he felt the hate
That burned beneath them there.
She asked him if he heard the curse
Of worms in black despair.
He kissed the rose. What did it mean?
What of the rose's prayer?

Down, down where rain has never come
They fight in burning graves,
Bleeding and drinking blood
Within those venom-caves.
Blaspheming still the gardener's name,
They live and hate and go.
I wonder if the gardener heard
The rose that told him so?

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Fathers’ Day,2008

The Fathers’ Day goes well forgot;
The Mothers’ Day is soon forgot;
A mother is a need in life;
A father is a must in strife!

Dad tills the land and sows the seed,
And pushes hoe like bulls indeed;
And when his forehead sweat strikes earth,
The seedling sprouts to give us mirth.

Dad works to earn the sums to pay
All bills; and joyfully goes day;
Dad works on week-ends to earn more,
And keeps all happy, sans eye-sore!

The love of dad is so unique;
Without it, children go so sick;
Remember dad on this great day,
And greet him heartily en way!

Without your mom, life could be sad!
Without your dad, you could go mad!

‘Happy Fathers’ Day,2008! ’