Related quotes: I. THE FLOWER'S NAME Here's...

Garden Francies

I. THE FLOWER'S NAME

Here's the garden she walked across,
Arm in my arm, such a short while since:
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss
Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!
She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,
As back with that murmur the wicket swung;
For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned,
To feed and forget it the leaves among.

II.

Down this side ofthe gravel-walk
She went while her rope's edge brushed the box:
And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.
Roses, ranged in valiant row,
I will never think that she passed you by!
She loves you noble roses, I know;
But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!

III.

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip,
Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim;
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name:
What a name! Was it love or praise?
Speech half-asleep or song half-awake?
I must learn Spanish, one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

IV.

Roses, if I live and do well,
I may bring her, one of these days,
To fix you fast with as fine a spell,
Fit you each with his Spanish phrase;
But do not detain me now; for she lingers
There, like sunshine over the ground,
And ever I see her soft white fingers
Searching after the bud she found.

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,
Stay as you are and be loved for ever!
Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not:
Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never!
For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle,
Twinkling the audacious leaves between,
Till round they turn and down they nestle---
Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

VI.

Where I find her not, beauties vanish;
Whither I follow ber, beauties flee;
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish
June's twice June since she breathed it with me?
Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,
Treasure my lady's lightest footfall!
---Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces---
Roses, you are not so fair after all!

II. SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS.

Plague take all your pedants, say I!
He who wrote what I hold in my hand,
Centuries back was so good as to die,
Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land;
This, that was a book in its time,
Printed on paper and bound in leather,
Last month in the white of a matin-prime
Just when the birds sang all together.

II.

Into the garden I brought it to read,
And under the arbute and laurustine
Read it, so help me grace in my need,
From title-page to closing line.
Chapter on chapter did I count,
As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge;
Added up the mortal amount;
And then proceeded to my revenge.

III.

Yonder's a plum-tree with a crevice
An owl would build in, were he but sage;
For a lap of moss, like a fine pont-levis
In a castle of the Middle Age,
Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber;
When he'd be private, there might he spend
Hours alone in his lady's chamber:
Into this crevice I dropped our friend.

IV.

Splash, went he, as under he ducked,
---At the bottom, I knew, rain-drippings stagnate:
Next, a handful of blossoms I plucked
To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate;
Then I went in-doors, brought out a loaf,
Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis;
Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf
Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais.

Now, this morning, betwixt the moss
And gum that locked our friend in limbo,
A spider had spun his web across,
And sat in the midst with arms akimbo:
So, I took pity, for learning's sake,
And, _de profundis, accentibus ltis,
Cantate!_ quoth I, as I got a rake;
And up I fished his delectable treatise.

VI.

Here you have it, dry in the sun,
With all the binding all of a blister,
And great blue spots where the ink has run,
And reddish streaks that wink and glister
O'er the page so beautifully yellow:
Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks!
Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow?
Here's one stuck in his chapter six!

VII.

How did he like it when the live creatures
Tickled and toused and browsed him all over,
And worm, slug, eft, with serious features,
Came in, each one, for his right of trover?
---When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face
Made of her eggs the stately deposit,
And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface
As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet?

VIII.

All that life and fun and romping,
All that frisking and twisting and coupling,
While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping
And clasps were cracking and covers suppling!
As if you bad carried sour John Knox
To the play-house at Paris, Vienna or Munich,
Fastened him into a front-row box,
And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic.

IX.

Come, old martyr! What, torment enough is it?
Back to my room shall you take your sweet self.
Good-bye, mother-beetle; husband-eft, _sufficit!_
See the snug niche I have made on my shelf!
A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you,
Here's C. to be grave with, or D. to be gay,
And with E. on each side, and F. right over you,
Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day!

poem by Robert Browning
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis

III

Splash, went he, as under he ducked,
—At the bottom, I knew, rain-drippings stagnate:
Next, a handful of blosoms I plucked
To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate;
Then I went in-doors, brought out a loaf,
Half a cheese, and a bottle of CHablis;
Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf
Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais.

Now, this morning, betwixt the moss
And gum that locked our friend in limbo,
A spider had spun his web across,
And sat in the midst with arms akimbo:
So, I took pity, for learning's sake,
And, de profundis, accentibus lætis,
Cantate! quoth I, as I got a rake;
And up I fished his delectable treatise.

VII

How did he like it when the live creatures
Tickled and toused and browsed him all over,
And worm, slug, eft, with serious features,
Came in, each one, for his right of trover?
—When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face
Made of her eggs the stately deposit
And the newt borrowewd just so much of the preface
As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet?

VIII

All that life and fun and romping
All that frisking and twisting and coupling,
While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping
And clasps were cracking and covers suppling!
As if you had carried sour John Knox
To the play-house at Paris, Vienna or Munich,
Fastened him into a front-row box,
And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic.

Come, old martyr! What torment enough is it?
Back to my room shall you take your sweet self.
Good-bye, mother-beetle; husband-eft sufficit!
See the snug niche I have made on my shelf!
A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you,
Here's C. to be grave with, or D. to be Gay,
And with E. on each side, and F. right over you,
Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day!

poem by Robert Browning from Garden Fancies (1845)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Flower

Down this side of the gravel-walk
She went while her robe's edge brushed the box:
And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.
Roses, ranged in valiant row,
I will never think that she passed you by!
She loves you noble roses, I know;
But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!

III

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip,
Stooped over, in dout, as settling its claim;
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
It's soft meandering Spanish name:
What a name! Was it love, or praise?
Speech half-asleep or song half-awake
I must learn SPanish, one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

Where I find her not, beauties vanish;
Whither I follow her, beauties flee;
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish
June's twice June since she breathed it with me?
Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,
Treasure my lady's lightest footfall!
—Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces—
Roses, you are not so fair after all!

poem by Robert Browning from Garden Fancies (1845)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Married Man's A Fool

(Willie McTell)
Had a friend, Louie Brown, he was a deacon
Just as wise as he could be
Now I realized he could read the Good Book
Back from Revelations down to Genesis
You know last Sunday morning we was over to the church
My buddy wants to take him a stand
And he looks out upon that whole congregation
The Good Book in his hand
Now he cast his eye about, and then he looks over in the Amen Corner
All the sisters commenced to shout [What'd he say ?]
He said a married man's a fool to think that his wife love nobody else but him
She stick by you all your life the chances is mighty slim
Now you read the Good Book, chapter twenty-one:
Every married woman got to have a little fun
Read on over chapter twenty-two:
It's a sin to let that woman make a fool outta you
Now you read a little further, chapter twenty-three:
She two-time you, brother, like she double-crossed me
Read on back, over chapter ten:
She shimmy one time, you got the problem again
'Cause a married man's a fool to think that his wife
Loves nobody else but him, I mean, loves nobody else but him
Well, a married man's a fool to think that his wife
Loves nobody else but him
She stands by you all your life the chances is mighty and slim
Now you read on over twenty-fifth page:
Married womens, Lord, is hard to engage
Read kinda careful, chapter twenty-six:
Back door slamming you got to learn to get it fixed
Read on out, chapter twenty-eight:
Who's that back slidin' out through the back gate ?
I believe I'll close on chapter twenty-nine:
Woman get tired of the same man all the time
'Cause a married man's fool to think that his wife love nobody else but him

song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Married Mans A Fool

(willie mctell)
Had a friend, louie brown, he was a deacon
Just as wise as he could be
Now I realized he could read the good book
Back from revelations down to genesis
You know last sunday morning we was over to the church
My buddy wants to take him a stand
And he looks out upon that whole congregation
The good book in his hand
Now he cast his eye about, and then he looks over in the amen corner
All the sisters commenced to shout [whatd he say ? ]
He said a married mans a fool to think that his wife love nobody else but him
She stick by you all your life the chances is mighty slim
Now you read the good book, chapter twenty-one:
Every married woman got to have a little fun
Read on over chapter twenty-two:
Its a sin to let that woman make a fool outta you
Now you read a little further, chapter twenty-three:
She two-time you, brother, like she double-crossed me
Read on back, over chapter ten:
She shimmy one time, you got the problem again
cause a married mans a fool to think that his wife
Loves nobody else but him, I mean, loves nobody else but him
Well, a married mans a fool to think that his wife
Loves nobody else but him
She stands by you all your life the chances is mighty and slim
Now you read on over twenty-fifth page:
Married womens, lord, is hard to engage
Read kinda careful, chapter twenty-six:
Back door slamming you got to learn to get it fixed
Read on out, chapter twenty-eight:
Whos that back slidin out through the back gate ?
I believe Ill close on chapter twenty-nine:
Woman get tired of the same man all the time
cause a married mans fool to think that his wife love nobody else but him

song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Song Of Roses

'Tis time to sing of roses: of roses all ablow,
To every vagrant passing breeze they dip a courtesy low,
'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here, you know.

One song for true love's roses of sweetest deepest red,
Some heart will wear you faithfully when life itself hath fled,
And for the white rose sing a song--the white rose for the dead.

And ah! the yellow roses, of brightest, lightest gold,
King Midas must have touched their leaves in mystic days of old,
Or they were made of sunshine, and gilded, fold by fold.

And the roadside rose, sweet-briar, we would remember thee
And the cinnamon rose that evermore enthralls each passing bee,
You old, old-fashioned roses, a-growing wild and free.

'Tis time to sing of roses! of roses all ablow!
They come again, as sweet, my dear, as those of long ago.
'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here you know.

poem by Virna Sheard
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A Kentish Garden

THERE is a grey-walled garden, far away
From noise and smoke of cities, where the hours
Pass with soft wings among the happy flowers,
And lovely leisure blossoms every day.

There, tall and white, the sceptral lily blows;
There grow the pansy, pink, and columbine,
Brave hollyhocks, and star-white jessamine,
And the red glory of the royal rose.

There greeny glow-worms gem the dusky lawn,
The lime-trees breathe their fragrance to the night,
Pink roses sleep, and dream that they are white,
Until they wake to colour with the dawn.

There, in the splendour of the sultry noon,
The sunshine sleeps upon the garden bed
Where the white poppy droops a drowsy head
And dreams of kisses from the white full moon.

And there, some days, all wild with wind and rain,
The tossed trees show the white side of their leaves,
While the great drops drip from the ivied eaves,
And birds are still--till the sun shines again.

And there, all days, my heart goes wandering,
Because there, first, my heart began to know
The glories of the summer and the snow,
The loveliness of harvest and of spring.

There may be fairer gardens; but I know
There is no other garden half so dear;
Because 'tis there, this many, many a year,
The sacred, sweet, white flowers of memory grow!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Deserted Garden

I mind me in the days departed,
How often underneath the sun
With childish bounds I used to run
To a garden long deserted.

The beds and walks were vanished quite;
And wheresoe'er had struck the spade,
The greenest grasses Nature laid
To sanctify her right.

I called the place my wilderness,
For no one entered there but I;
The sheep looked in, the grass to espy,
And passed it ne'ertheless.

The trees were interwoven wild,
And spread their boughs enough about
To keep both sheep and shepherd out,
But not a happy child.

Adventurous joy it was for me!
I crept beneath the boughs, and found
A circle smooth of mossy ground
Beneath a poplar tree.

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in,
Bedropt with roses waxen-white
Well satisfied with dew and light
And careless to be seen.

Long years ago it might befall,
When all the garden flowers were trim,
The grave old gardener prided him
On these the most of all.

Some lady, stately overmuch,
Here moving with a silken noise,
Has blushed beside them at the voice
That likened her to such.

And these, to make a diadem,
She often may have plucked and twined,
Half-smiling as it came to mind
That few would look at them.

Oh, little thought that lady proud,
A child would watch her fair white rose,
When buried lay her whiter brows,
And silk was changed for shroud!

Nor thought that gardener, (full of scorns
For men unlearned and simple phrase,)
A child would bring it all its praise
By creeping through the thorns!

To me upon my low moss seat,
Though never a dream the roses sent
Of science or love's compliment,
I ween they smelt as sweet.

It did not move my grief to see
The trace of human step departed:
Because the garden was deserted,
The blither place for me!

Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken
Has childhood 'twixt the sun and sward;
We draw the moral afterward,
We feel the gladness then.

And gladdest hours for me did glide
In silence at the rose-tree wall:
A thrush made gladness musical
Upon the other side.

Nor he nor I did e'er incline
To peck or pluck the blossoms white;
How should I know but roses might
Lead lives as glad as mine?

To make my hermit-home complete,
I brought dear water from the spring
Praised in its own low murmuring,
And cresses glossy wet.

And so, I thought, my likeness grew
(Without the melancholy tale)
To 'Gentle Hermit of the Dale,'
And Angelina too.

For oft I read within my nook
Such minstrel stories; till the breeze
Made sounds poetic in the trees,
And then I shut the book.

If I shut this wherein I write
I hear no more the wind athwart
Those trees, nor feel that childish heart
Delighting in delight.

My childhood from my life is parted,
My footstep from the moss which drew
Its fairy circle round: anew
The garden is deserted.

Another thrush may there rehearse
The madrigals which sweetest are;
No more for me! myself afar
Do sing a sadder verse.

Ah me, ah me! when erst I lay
In that child's-nest so greenly wrought,
I laughed unto myself and thought
'The time will pass away.'

And still I laughed, and did not fear
But that, whene'er was past away
The childish time, some happier play
My womanhood would cheer.

I knew the time would pass away,
And yet, beside the rose-tree wall,
Dear God, how seldom, if at all,
Did I look up to pray!

The time is past; and now that grows
The cypress high among the trees,
And I behold white sepulchres
As well as the white rose, --

When graver, meeker thoughts are given,
And I have learnt to lift my face,
Reminded how earth's greenest place
The color draws from heaven, --

It something saith for earthly pain,
But more for Heavenly promise free,
That I who was, would shrink to be
That happy child again.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I am in love

I am in love
With books
As they are
Like my life
My Life is like
A page written
In Black and white
Read and turn
Never look back
As the past been
Eaten up
Good or bad.
Tomorrow my future
The Next chapter
An adventure
Between the lines
I find life- a beauty
The new opportunity,
The second chance
Which I under lines
With a color full pen
Never mind whether
Lose or win, loss or gain,
As The story never end
Of the true lovers
In pain or pleasure
Chapter after chapter
Grief or relief
Story must go on.

poem by Abdul Wahab
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The Flower’s Name

(after Robert Browing)

Through this garden her steps swept
before she opened the gate,
where roses with dew wept
and not a moment longer she could wait,
while there was something gracious in her walk
before she stopped a moment at the letterbox,
in the distance children’s voices she heard talk
while her arm brushed against the snow-white phlox.

Her feet carried her in ready steps as she passed by,
saw red carnations in a row
and her eyes sparkled bluer than the sky
while she felt a gentle breeze blow
everywhere flowers and buds did God praise
in their beauty almost casting a spell
while they were blooming for days
with more loveliness and vibrant colours than anyone can tell.

III

She found a flower much more lovely
than any other one she had ever seen
while bees were circling it lively
and to smell it she was keen
but did not know the flower’s name
while it was something precious that she did found,
the flower was blushing as if it were aflame
where it was growing in bloom upon bloom from the ground.

[Reference: “Garden Fancies: I: The flower’s name” by Robert Browing.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Roses Are Red (Jessica)

Roses are red Violets are blue,
Honey is so sweet and so are you darling!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
You've made my dreams come true!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
I have my brown eyes glued on YOU!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
I feel like i have known you!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
You are so FINE that you give me the BLUES!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
Lord knows that im falling for you!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
I just want to Rock with you!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
These lips can't wait to be kissing you!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
I do anything to claim you!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
I bow down to you!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
I've never met anyone as HOT as you!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
never knew i would meet you!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
I'm going to bed would you like to come too!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
I rather spend my precious time with you!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
You are beautiful as sparkling DIAMOND!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
You have me speechless everytime i talk to you!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
May i have this dance with you (JESSICA)

Roses are red Violets are blue,
I have mentioned your name so many time i have lost count!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
I dont want no-one if i cant have you. #PERIOD

Roses are red Violets are blue,
I want to give you everlasting Joy, Happiness, and especially LOVE!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
I'm the one who will make your dreams come true

Roses are red Violets are blue,
Chilli is hot and so are you!

Roses are red Violets are blue,
JESSICA ITA JAMES WILL YOU BE MY GIRLFRIEND! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Roses are red Violets are blue,
THIS POEM WAS MADE FOR YOU.......

poem by Obi Onyenwe
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The Book

Have you ever opened a book?
And feel like it’s your life
As you watch each page go pass
You think where did I get lost
Each chapter is an ending
Of what was or what could have been
But each new chapter a beginning
Brings you hope to live again
But the hardest thing in life
Is as you turn each page
You must learn to pass the pain
That lies between the pages
Each chapter a lesson
In life’s little games
Then we smile at ourselves
As we close the last page
To look forward to anew
Of a new chapter in our life’
We smile and nod
At the new book of life

poem by Kaila George
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Margaret

I KNOW a garden where white lilies grow,
Under the grey sweet-laden apple boughs;
It is a garden where the roses blow,
And honeysuckle covers half the house.
O happy garden, do you keep the vows
Breathed in your quiet ear beneath the rose,
Or do you tell the tale to each soft wind that blows?

Across your grassy paths she used to stray,
She moved among you like a living flower,
Her beauty drank your beauty every day,
Your beauty decked her beauty every hour.
You gave her rose and lily for a dower,
With all sweet flowers and fruits your bosom bore--
She took them all--and now she comes not any more.

O garden, if you breathe such secret things
To the south wind who loves you, tell him this:
To spread the scented softness of his wings,
And seek that other garden where she is,
And bid him bear no blossom and no kiss;
Only, dear garden, tell the wind to say
How grey the world is grown since Margaret went away!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Thought's Garden.

I have within Thought's garden sat
And played with this sweet flower and that,
And touched my lute till each soft string
Was tuned to Love's remembering.
Then in the grass I've laid me down
And woven my heart a faery crown,
As one who in a dream might be
Intoxicate with poesy.
Until I felt my being grow
Pure as a flower, as white as snow,
Though through it did a rosy streak
The passion of my love bespeak.
And I would feed on fancies then
Till I came back to time again,
Like one who on a fragrant way
Had parted with the golden Day;
And in the twilight wandering home
Did then as to Love's cabin come,
And found within a mate who made
A glory of the coming shade!

poem by Robert Crawford
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The Book Of Love

In the book of love come of age
When you lose your love, you turn the page
Hey-ho the book of love,
Life is written in your own blood
Say forever and it all sounds fine
When youre holding hands,
With the hands of time
Hey-ho the book of love
Laugh at the dead but tomorrow you cry
Chorus:
My broken hearts from a to z
Dos and donts on bended knees
Change of lovers endlessly
And this book of love is writing me
Chapter 2 you walk away
But in chapter 3 a man made me stay
Hey-ho the book of love
Why dontcha look up
All the games you played
Chorus
Theyll be sweet love in a darkness
But the book of love
Is a story of your loneliness
Finger tipped it on a holy night
And a page is ripped for a name of life
Check the back cause the datell be due
When theyll throw the book of love at you
They are broken hearts from a to z
Dos and donts on bended knees
Disappointed right to be
Celebrate a celebrity
K-i-s-s-i-n-g
Ah stupid cupid set me free
Took a look and whatll I see
This book of love is writing me
This book of love is writing me
This book of love is writing me
This book of love is writing me

song performed by by Cher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente

MY limbs are wasted with a flame,
My feet are sore with travelling,
For calling on my Lady's name
My lips have now forgot to sing.

O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
Strain for my Love thy melody,
O Lark sing louder for love's sake,
My gentle Lady passeth by.

She is too fair for any man
To see or hold his heart's delight,
Fairer than Queen or courtezan
Or moon-lit water in the night.

Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,
(Green leaves upon her golden hair!)
Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
Of autumn corn are not more fair.

Her little lips, more made to kiss
Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is,
Or roses after evening rain.

Her neck is like white melilote
Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
The throbbing of the linnet's throat
Is not so sweet to look upon.

As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,
Her cheeks are as the fading stain
Where the peach reddens to the south.

O twining hands! O delicate
White body made for love and pain!
O House of love! O desolate
Pale flower beaten by the rain!

poem by Oscar Wilde
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Book Of Days

Your life is as a book
Written on the pages are the weeks
For you would give anything to take just one look
Into the next chapter, the next page

Each page is a new thought, a new dream
Sometimes it takes so long to pass that page
And sometimes nothing is as it seams
For you know you can not go ahead or back

You know you are where you are
You know you can't change that
As you read page to page, so near to fear
You write the chapters as you go, with each turn

Each turn, each move changes what's to come
And you know each moment could be the last
With this in mind you go so mumb
So numb to the touch, to the thought

You turn page after page
until you reach the 'end'
And only then, you are freed from the title
The title that has kept your thoughts bound, and tight

You turn the pages one by one
You take the pain, take the joy
Until you are done
And your story becomes another on the shelf of eternity

(1/24/2008)

poem by Bethany Maxwell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Parody Of “Uncle Ned”

DERE was an old nigger, and him name was Uncle Tom,
And him tale was rather slow;
Me try to read de whole, but me only read some,
Because me found it no go.
Den hang up de auther Mrs. Stowe,
And kick de volume wid your toe—
And dere's no more public for poor Uncle Tom,
He am gone whar de trunk—lining go.
Him tale dribbles on and on widout a break,
Till you hab no eyes for to see;
When I reached Chapter 4 I had got a headache,
So I had to let Chapter 4 be.
Den hang up, etc.
De demand one fine morning for Uncle Tom died,
De tears down Mrs. Stowe's face ran like rain;
For she knew berry well, now dey'd laid him on de shelf,
Dat she'd neber get a publisher again.
Den hang up, etc.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Sundew

A LITTLE marsh-plant, yellow green,
And pricked at lip with tender red.
Tread close, and either way you tread
Some faint black water jets between
Lest you should bruise the curious head.

A live thing maybe; who shall know?
The summer knows and suffers it;
For the cool moss is thick and sweet
Each side, and saves the blossom so
That it lives out the long June heat.

The deep scent of the heather burns
About it; breathless though it be,
Bow down and worship; more than we
Is the least flower whose life returns,
Least weed renascent in the sea.

We are vexed and cumbered in earth’s sight
With wants, with many memories;
These see their mother what she is,
Glad-growing, till August leave more bright
The apple-coloured cranberries.

Wind blows and bleaches the strong grass,
Blown all one way to shelter it
From trample of strayed kine, with feet
Felt heavier than the moorhen was,
Strayed up past patches of wild wheat.

You call it sundew: how it grows,
If with its colour it have breath,
If life taste sweet to it, if death
Pain its soft petal, no man knows:
Man has no sight or sense that saith.

My sundew, grown of gentle days,
In these green miles the spring begun
Thy growth ere April had half done
With the soft secret of her ways
Or June made ready for the sun.

O red-lipped mouth of marsh-flower,
I have a secret halved with thee.
The name that is love’s name to me
Thou knowest, and the face of her
Who is my festival to see.

The hard sun, as thy petals knew,
Coloured the heavy moss-water:
Thou wert not worth green midsummer
Nor fit to live to August blue,
O sundew, not remembering her.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Venus in the Garden

'Twas at early morning,
The dawn was blushing in her purple bed,
When in a sweet, embowered garden
She, the fairest of the goddesses,
The lovely Venus,
Roamed amongst the roses white and red.
She sought for flowers
To make a garland
For her golden head.

Snow-white roses, blood-red roses,
In that sweet garden close,
Offered incense to the goddess:
Both the white and the crimson rose.

White roses, red roses, blossoming:
But the fair Venus knew
The crimson roses had gained their hue
From the hearts that for love had bled;
And the goddess made a garland
Gathered from the roses red.

poem by James Weldon Johnson
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The End Of The Chapter

Ah, yes, the chapter ends to-day;
We even lay the book away;
But oh, how sweet the moments sped
Before the final page was read!

We tried to read between the lines
The Author's deep-concealed designs;
But scant reward such search secures;
You saw my heart and I saw yours.

The Master,--He who penned the page
And bade us read it,--He is sage:
And what he orders, you and I
Can but obey, nor question why.

We read together and forgot
The world about us. Time was not.
Unheeded and unfelt, it fled.
We read and hardly knew we read.

Until beneath a sadder sun,
We came to know the book was done.
Then, as our minds were but new lit,
It dawned upon us what was writ;

And we were startled. In our eyes,
Looked forth the light of great surprise.
Then as a deep-toned tocsin tolls,
A voice spoke forth: 'Behold your souls!'

I do, I do. I cannot look
Into your eyes: so close the book.
But brought it grief or brought it bliss,
No other page shall read like this!

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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