Flower
Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it
droop and drop into the dust.
I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of
pain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am
aware, and the time of offering go by.
Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower
in thy service and pluck it while there is time.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Related quotes
The Petal Game
pick a flower
to play the petal game
pluck a petal
he loves me
pluck a petal
I don't love him
pluck a petal
he keeps getting closer
pluck a petal
I keep pushing him away
pluck a petal
he is always around me
pluck a petal
I hide away from him
pluck a petal
he is always protecting me
pluck a petal
I just punch him in the gut
pluck a petal
he never seems to get it
pluck a petal
I really hate his guts
pluck a petal
he just really bugs me
pluck a petal
I need a new flower now
pick a flower
to play the petal game
poem by Amber Lyn Charneski
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Pretty Flower
Truly thou lovest pretty flowers,
For pretty flower, thyself, thou art.
May I, if tenderly I pluck thee,
Make fast thy tendrils to my heart—
Pretty Flower?
And should Fate deem thee answer, pluck me!
Would one of meager courage dare
To place the hand he feels unworthy
Upon a spotless lily, fair,
Pretty Flower?
poem by Raymond Garfield Dandridge
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Quand Meme
AGE pauses on his toilsome way
To let youth pluck her flowers of play;
Flowers are not always, but we may
Cut thorns and thistles any day.
Would Fate but hold her hand one hour,
Then might we pluck love's perfect flower;
Yet full security might miss
The perfume of one hour like this.
For all our joys are snatched from Fate,
Through years her ban makes desolate;
We wrest our love from doubt and fear,
And find it so more sweet, more dear.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Flower in the Crannied Wall
Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower-but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Flower By The Path
A FLOWER was growing alone,
Then alone and for ever alone:
Some one came by,
Saw the flower how fair it had grown,
Chose it, plucked it to die.
And what is a flower alone,
Then alone and for ever alone,
Come no one by?
Why should a flower be fair for its own?
Choose it, pluck it to die.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Tale Of Another Selfish Giant
you ruffian, Oscar,
what are you doing
on the wall
of my garden?
do you not see
the warning signs all over?
Sir, I’ve done what
I need to
and I’m climbing over
to jump back to open space
on my side of the earth
you scoundrel, Oscar,
you surly boy -
did you pluck the flower
the red red rose
so precious and rare?
Sir, I did indeed pluck
the flower
the red red rose
so precious and rare;
and I slipped
through your daughter’s
window
and stole a kiss
as she lay sleeping
and put the rose in the vase
on the side table by her bed;
and I feel now she awakes
and glowing with joy at seeing
the red red rose
so precious and rare,
she blows me a kiss
in this morning’s cool air
poem by Raj Arumugam
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All my life I have tried to pluck a thistle and plant a flower wherever the flower would grow in thought and mind.
quote by Abraham Lincoln
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Staying The Night At A Mountain Temple
The high tower is a hundred feet tall,
From here one's hand could pluck the stars.
I do not dare to speak in a loud voice,
I fear to disturb the people in heaven.
A Thank You Note
For a moment
you were a butterfly.
I tried to pluck you from a flower,
capture you, keep you.
hold you in my hand
to relish your beauty,
I failed, of course, hopelessly,
your wings sprung open
to escape my grasp
but that freed me too
and so I write this little note
of gratitude to you.
poem by Ruth Walters
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If you would enjoy the fruit, pluck not the flower.
One could not pluck a flower without troubling a star.
quote by Loren Eiseley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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May I Turn You into a Beautiful Flower!
May I turn you into a beautiful flower!
More beautiful than it sounds, in the garden;
No wind shall turn you pale, with its power,
Your beauty covering it, as a shield and hidden.
The roses have a beauty, for them to bow,
And the children pose a charm, for them to pluck.
A flower so pure and gentle to touch, a dove,
And the others, decline to shine and duck.
A flower in the hair of the princess of the castle,
That the jewels in her crown and her heart shall envy.
And as long as my eyes can see, and my heart can beat,
So long shall you shine, as the beauty, as this flower.
©Anees Rahman
poem by Anees Rahman
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Fulfillment
I GREW a rose once more to please mine eyes.
All things to aid it — dew, sun, wind, fair skies —
Were kindly; and to shield it from despoil,
I fenced it safely in with grateful toil.
No other hand than mine shall pluck this flower, said I,
And I was jealous of the bee that hovered nigh.
It grew for days; I stood hour after hour
To watch the slow unfolding of the flower,
And then I did not leave its side at all,
Lest some mischance my flower should befall.
At last, oh joy! the central petals burst apart.
It blossomed — but, alas! a worm was at its heart!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Olive Eater.
And oh
she said
she was always
saying that
he thought
watching her place
an olive in her mouth
and oh
she repeated
this is not
what I expected it
to taste like at all
and she licked
two of her fingers
one after the other
and quite sexually
he mused
sitting opposite her
in the French cafe
taking in
her bright eyes
and the openness
of her mouth
and the tongue licking
and she said
I thought it’d have been sharper
more exciting
more out of this world
and he thought
how simple she is
how childlike
in her expression
and in the way she utters
her words
and she looked at him
and said
what are you thinking?
What’s going on
in that bright brain of yours?
And he said
oh that would be telling
wouldn’t it
that would be
allowing you
into my head
and she laughed
and sat there
with her wet fingers
just before him
as she waited
to pluck another
olive off the plate
and he allowed his eyes
to settle like butterflies
on her breasts
just momentarily
just sufficiently
to drink in
the beauty there
and she said
do you want one?
Do you want an olive
to eat or suck?
No no
he said
and thought
I’d like another
fresh fruit
to touch
and pluck.
poem by Terry Collett
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Love to nature
Don't look a flower
Without an heart of a lover
Don't pluck out of a flower
Without a mind of a lover
poem by Ashraf v Hussain
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Time of Roses
It was not in the Winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses—
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!
That churlish season never frown'd
On early lovers yet:
O no—the world was newly crown'd
With flowers when first we met!
'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses—
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!
poem by Thomas Hood
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Wayside Flowers
Pluck not the wayside flower,
It is the traveller's dower;
A thousand passers-by
Its beauties may espy,
May win a touch of blessing
From Nature's mild caressing.
The sad of heart perceives
A violet under leaves
Like sonic fresh-budding hope;
The primrose on the slope
A spot of sunshine dwells,
And cheerful message tells
Of kind renewing power;
The nodding bluebell's dye
Is drawn from happy sky.
Then spare the wayside flower!
It is the traveller's dower.
poem by William Allingham
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Grotesque
Why do the lilies goggle their tongues at me
When I pluck them;
And writhe and twist,
And strangle themselves against my fingers,
So that I can hardly weave the garland
For your hair?
Why do they shriek your name
And spit at me
When I would cluster them?
Must I kill them
To make them lie still,
And send you a wreath of lolling corpses
To turn putrid and soft
On your forehead
While you dance?
poem by Amy Lowell
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Song I
OH haste while roses bloom below,
Oh haste while pale and bright above
The sun and moon alternate glow,
To pluck the rose of love.
Yea, give the morning to the lark,
The nightingale its glimmering grove,
Give moonlight to the hungry dark,
But to man's heart give love!
Then haste while still the roses blow,
And pale and bright in heaven above
The sun and moon alternate glow,
Pluck, pluck the rose of love.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Rose D'Amour
Oh haste while roses bloom below,
Oh haste while pale and bright above
The sun and moon alternate glow,
To pluck the rose of love.
Yea, give the morning to the lark,
The nightingale its glimmering grove,
Give moonlight to the hungry dark,
But to man's heart give love!
Then haste while still the roses blow,
And pale and bright in heaven above
The sun and moon alternate glow,
Pluck, pluck the rose of love.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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