En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Apology

Think me not unkind and rude
That I walk alone in grove and glen;
I go to the god of the wood
To fetch his word to men.

Tax not my sloth that I
Fold my arms beside the brook;
Each cloud that floated in the sky
Writes a letter in my book.

Chide me not, laborious band,
For the idle flowers I brought;
Every aster in my hand
Goes home loaded with a thought.

There was never mystery
But 'tis figured in the flowers;
Was never secret history
But birds tell it in the bowers.

One harvest from thy field
Homeward brought the oxen strong;
A second crop thine acres yield,
Which I gather in a song.

poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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The Poet's Possession

Think not, oh master of the well-tilled field,
This earth is only thine; for after thee,
When all is sown and gathered and put by,
Comes the grave poet with creative eye,
And from these silent acres and clean plots,
Bids with his wand the fancied after-yield,
A second tilth and second harvest, be,
The crop of images and curious thoughts.

poem by Archibald Lampman
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A Bouquet

He brought to me a sweet bouquet
that sparkled in the light.
I touched the hand that picked the flowers,
daisies all so white.
When he left I held them close,
afraid that I might cry.
If only I could keep them
and never let them die.
But tears that flow
and flowers that grow
can both be dried you know.

The thought of this brought a smile
and never brought a tear.
My first bouquet would last forever
between pages I revere.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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You Became My History

You were once a mystery,
The one I loved to solve.
Deciphering your code,
Always got me lost.
I thought of understanding you more,
But before I realised it,
You became my history.

You were once a mystery,
Discovering you was a thrill,
Every puzzle I put together,
Granted me fulfilment,
But as time flew by,
you became my history.

You were once a mystery,
Every clue brought me closer,
Every step brought me nearer,
Only to make me smile,
I thrived on your addiction
But after a while,
You became my history.

You were once a mystery,
the very foundation that kept me stable,
Once I comprehended you, I began to feel able,
You were the ocean to my boat,
The cell to my system,
However, even without the distance,
You became my history.

You were once a mystery,
Clouded in question marks,
Trying to understand,
Trying to comprehend,
I was left with numerous thoughts,
The more I tried, the more I learnt,
The less I craved, and before I knew it,
You became my history.

poem by Zushan Hashmi
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Colouring Book

The sun brought out its colouring book
and painted the landscape
as far as the eyes could see.
All the colours of the rainbow
stared out at me.
It came as the sun rose
and faded when it went away.
While it stayed, it warmed the air
spreading its beauty everywhere,
putting smiles on people’s faces,
making little birds sing,
opening bouquets of flowers
who thought it must be spring.
When the sun brought out its colouring book
to dazzle us with its display.

18 September 2008

poem by David Harris
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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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My heart shall be thy garden

My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own,
Into thy garden; thine be happy hours
Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers,
From root to crowning petal, thine alone.
Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown
Up to the sky inclosed, with all its showers.
But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowers
To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown.

For as these come and go, and quit our pine
To follow the sweet season, or, new-corners,
Sing one song only from our alder-trees,
My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine.
Flit to the silent world and other summers,
With wings that dip beyond the silver seas.

poem by Alice Meynell
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In Tintagel Graveyard

Who brought flowers to this grave?
I, said the wren.
I brought them as seeds and then
Watched them grow.

No, said the wind. That's not true.
I blew them across the moor and sea,
I blew them up to the grave's door.
They were a gift from me.

They came of their own accord,
Said the celandine.
I know best. They're brothers of mine.

I am Death's friend,
Said the crow. I ought to know.
I dropped them into the shadow of the leaning stone.
I brought the flowers.

No, said Love,
It was I who brought them,

With the help of the wren's wing,
With the help of the wind's breath,
With the help of the celandine and the crow.

It was I who brought them
For the living and the dead to share,
I was the force that put those flowers there.

poem by Brian Patten
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He Loves Me.........

Yesterday he brought me a rose
And it wasn't our anniversary
But he slapped me the day before
Thinking that I'm his adversary
Then he shoved me, then he kicked me
Then he punched me, but I bit my tongue
Because after all he's my man and he loves me
I'm not so sure and I might be wrong
I think he loves me, he brought me flowers
Sometimes he strikes me, he sometimes beats me
But last night, he raped me in the shower
This morning he brought me a dozen roses
He says he's sorry, but again he hurt me
Again he slapped me, and then he dragged me
But then he kissed me, and then he hugged me
Tonight is special, there are more flowers
There is flowers near my head, flowers near my feet
Again I felt the pain tonight it was so deep
There is candles on my side and people walk by me
Tonight is special and its my funeral
This morning my husband killed me
But after all he loves me.................

poem by Elvira A Gasser
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Flowers - Giving It All Away B-side

Renegades and shifting shades
And the lights in your face
And you friends talk lying
But some of them got flowers in their room
When its on and youre falling on every floor
That youre hoping to score
And youre every night ? ? ?
But some of them got flowers in their room
But some of them got flowers in their room
But some of them got flowers in their room
Hear the word that the man on the stairs
Knows your every affair and is holding your hand
And he says some of them got flowers in their room
And he screams in a face
But the smile on the face is cool and its cold
And it reads vacated
And some of them got flowers in their room
And some of them got flowers in their room
And some of them got flowers in their room
And I take someone home and I cant be alone
And theres faces to please and I walk on the knees
Oh you see, I got no flowers in my room
And I laugh with my mouth and I laugh with you
But the joke was a joke that I never really knew
Some of them got flowers in their room
Some of them got flowers in their room
Some of them got flowers in their room

song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Pleasant Grove

Unto a pleasant grove or such like place,
Where here the curious cutting of a hedge:
There, by a pond, the trimming of the sedge:
Here the fine setting of well-shading trees:
The walks there mounting up by small degrees,
The gravel and the green so equal lie,
It, with the rest, draws on your ling'ring eye:
Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air,
Arising from the infinite repair
Of odoriferous buds and herbs of price,
(As if it were another Paradise)
So please the smelling sense, that you are fain
Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again.
There the small birds with their harmonious notes
Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats:
For in her face a many dimples show,
And often skips as it did dancing go:
Here further down an over-arched alley,
That from a hill goes winding in a valley,
You spy at end thereof a standing lake,
Where some ingenious artist strives to make
The water (brought in turning pipes of lead
Through birds of earth most lively fashioned)
To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all,
In singing well their own set madrigal.
This with no small delight retains your ear,
And makes you think none blest but who live there.
Then in another place the fruits that be
In gallant clusters decking each good tree,
Invite your hand to crop some from the stem,
And liking one, taste every sort of them:
Then to the arbours walk, then to the bowers,
Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers,
Then to birds, and to the clear spring thence,
Now pleasing one, and then another sense.
Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin'th,
As if it were some hidden labyrinth;
So loath to part and so content to stay,
That when the gard'ner knocks for you away,
It grieves you so to leave the pleasures in it,
That you could wish that you had never seen it.

poem by William Browne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Death of the Flowers

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread;
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchids died amid the summer glow;
But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

poem by William Cullen Bryant
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I Will Take You Home

Little girl lost
In a forest of dreams.
Its a dark old wood
And its damp with dew.
Hoot owl hoots
For a moment it seems
Something big and cold
Got ahold of you.
Just when everything gets scary,
Daddys come round for his darlin again.
Hold my hand with your little fingers.
Daddys loving arms gonna gather you in.
Aint no way the bogeyman can get you,
You can close your eyes, the world is gonna let you,
Your daddys here and never will forget you,
I will take you home.
I will take you home.
Gonna carry you back home
In my arms.
I will take you home.
Long is the road
We must travel on down.
Short are the legs
That will struggle behind.
I wish I knew for sure
Just where were bound,
What we will be doin
And what were gonna find.
Wherever we go, there will be birds to cheer you
Flowers to color in the fields around.
Wherever we go, Ill be right here near you
You cant get lost when youre always found.
Aint no fog thats thick enough to hide you
Your daddys gonna be right here beside you
If your fears should start to get inside you.
I will take you home.
I will take you home.
Gonna carry you back home
In my arms.
I will take you home.

song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Temple Beside The Pond

A Temple Beside The Pond
Surrounded with date trees;
And trees loaded with flowers,
Receiving cold cool breeze.
Coming across the acres of farmers land
From grove of mango trees,
To this holy peaceful place from home,
A narrow spiral way leads.
The pond itself adorned with lotuses,
Many water plants and weeds.
Halt for thirsty castles and tired villagers,
Pleasure of fishing and diving exceeds;
Fragrances of flowers and fireflies at night
Stand the place in good stead.

poem by Jyoti Sunit Chaudhary
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Reminiscence

Away and away to memory's land!
To seize the past with a daring hand,
And bear it back from oblivion's bowers,
To brighten again this dull world of ours.

There's many a walk beneath summer skies,
Starry and blue as some earthly eyes;
There's many an eve by the winter's hearth,
Sparkling all over with friendship and mirth.

There's many a ramble through wood and glen,
Away from the sight and the haunts of men;
There's climbing of rocks, and gathering flowers,
And watching the stream through summer showers.

There's many an hour that quickly went,
In the boughs of the old hill grape-vine spent;
There's many a ride, and many a walk,
And many a theme of friendly talk.

How freshly comes to the spirit back,
The merry light of its early track!—
But let it pass, for around my brow
Far deeper thoughts are gathering now.

I have learn'd too much of woe and wrong,
Of hearts all crush'd by oppression strong,
To deem the earth, as in other days,
A fairy theme for a poet's lays.

How may I linger within the bowers,
Bedight with memory's fairy flowers,
While woman's cry, as she drains the cup
Of her bitter lot, to the sky goes up?

How may I joy in my better fate,
While her heart is bleeding and desolate?—
Or give my thoughts to their blissful dreams,
While no bright ray on her darkness gleams?

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Do not linger to gather flowers to keep them, but walk on, for flowers will keep themselves blooming all your way.

aphorism by Rabindranath Tagore from Stray Birds (1916), translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet XLIV: Belovèd, Thou Hast Brought Me

Belovèd, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of that love of ours,
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my heart's ground. Indeed, those bed and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine,
Here's ivy!--take them, as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Yesterday he brought me a rose

And it wasn't our anniversary
But he slapped me the day before
Thinking that I'm his adversary
Then he shoved me, then he kicked me
Then he punched me, but I bit my tongue
Because after all he's my man and he loves me
I'm not so sure and I might be wrong
I think he loves me, he brought me flowers
Sometimes he strikes me, he sometimes beats me
But last night, he raped me in the shower
This morning he brought me a dozen roses
He says he's sorry, but again he hurt me
Again he slapped me, and then he dragged me
But then he kissed me, and then he hugged me
Tonight is special, there are more flowers
There is flowers near my head, flowers near my feet
Again I felt the pain tonight it was so deep
There is candles on my side and people walk by me
Tonight is special and its my funeral
This morning my husband killed me
But after all he loves me.................

poem by Emmy Morin
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My First Bouquet

He brought to me a sweet bouquet
that sparkled in the light.
I touched the hand that picked the flowers,
daisies all so white.
When he left I held them close
afraid that I might cry.
If only I could keep them
and never let them die.

But tears that flow
and flowers that grow
can both be dried you know?
Thinking of this brought a smile,
never a falling tear.
My first bouquet would last forever
inside pages I revere.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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The History Of You And Me

Everytime you think of me.
Write it all down in your diary.
And never forget you were mine.

'Cause you can write a book about love.
And you can write a book about history.
The history of you and me..

On every page that you write.
Move your pen, with those old memories of me.
Holding me in your arms.

'Cause you can write a book about love.
And you can write a book about history.
The history of you and me..

Try not to miss a word.
Don't miss a single word, about those old romantic nights.
The nights you spent with me.

'Cause you can write a book about love.
And you can write a book about history.
The history of you and me..

Yaahh! The history of you and me....

Love Song Poem By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1990,2009..
ALL rights reserved..

poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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Christmas (Tuckerman sonnet)

(after A. E. Housman)

Home are the soldiers, they are home and free,
they are home from the far off battlefield
never to a man’s will again to yield
home with loved ones, some friends to see.
Home is the farmer from the working field
where many acres of land lies prepared,
he is at the place where he wants to be
safe under God’s almighty constant shield

free from all kinds of dark iniquity
tranquillity is in the open veldt,
the evening falls, twilight is at hand,
with his cattle all having being cared
and soldier’s dance with a happy band,
close the farmer’s wife is being held

[Reference: XXII “Home is the sailor, home from sea” by A. E. Housman.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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