En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Afterglow

Like a fresh
sweet flower
to soon it is
for thee to wilt.

Petite Asiatic stem
undulates tranquilly
in pure scented rhythms
enfolding fleet passage.

Beatific fragile face
floating freshness linger on
illuminating scented air
in embellished afterglow.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Beauty and the Dude

A fresh sweet-scented beauty
Came tripping down the street;
She was as fair a vision
As you might chance to meet.
A masher raised his cady
(I don’t want to be rude)
He raised it to the lady—
That fresh sweet-scented dude.

They met and talked and simpered
And giggled in the street;
They were as bright a vision
As you might wish to meet.
I don’t know what they’re good for,
But don’t want to be rude
To the fair sweet-scented beauty
Or the well-upholstered dude.

poem by Henry Lawson
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Flower of Love

The perfume of your body dulls my sense.
I want nor wine nor weed; your breath alone
Suffices. In this moment rare and tense
I worship at your breast. The flower is blown,
The saffron petals tempt my amorous mouth,
The yellow heart is radiant now with dew
Soft-scented, redolent of my loved South;
O flower of love! I give myself to you.
Uncovered on your couch of figured green,
Here let us linger indivisible.
The portals of your sanctuary unseen
Receive my offering, yielding unto me.
Oh, with our love the night is warm and deep!
The air is sweet, my flower, and sweet the flute
Whose music lulls our burning brain to sleep,
While we lie loving, passionate and mute.

poem by Claude McKay
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Fallen Petals

for one thing i do not know the name
of this sea flower falling from a very lushy
tree whose leaves reach to the sands
as though kissing salt and silence

it is a big flower with pink lines
following the sides
the stamens are long and
scented like a woman with perfume
on her hair

alone in the night she walks
towards a cave
of cascading desire and there
he is waiting naked

the flowers keep on falling
the petals crushed
the night is silent
and well scented

the shadows fuse and then
they were lost in total darkness

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cotton Flower

Saint and cotton flower are same and alike.
In appearance they both are not beautiful
Not scented and not showy.

Saint and cotton flower are necessary
And most useful for daily life.
They both are white and pure and perfect
And serve human being forgetting their own self.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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The Story of My Flower

Born a lovely flower
Watered with fresh water during rainy seasons
Sprinkled with just enough during the droughts
The flower lived to blossom
With scented petals and green leaves
in a pot so large to take all it could bear.

One sunny day
the pot with the flower was shifted
shifted to a completely new location
where it was deprived of the sunlight
and the abundance of water.
Necessary it was
A new start in a life supposedly so complete.

Time went by
Nevertheless, the flower continued blooming
The petals now larger
The scent even more appealing
The flower survived even without the bare necessities.

The now sensitive flower
Soon attracted the eyes of predators
A simple glance to start with
Then became a soft touch
Followed by multiples of rough care.

Soon the flower started to lose its shape and form
Being given insufficient supply of water
Inappropriate fertilizers
And most of all the wrong attention.
At last it withered
After long hours of torture
Long days of loneliness
and years of abundance
it turned yellow, then brown
Finally, what remained was just a lifeless stem
standing in an old dirty pot.

poem by Alexandra Isnard
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I am your Flower

a beautiful flower waved in the wind
bent with the breeze.
you came along, and, noticed it.
stooping down to kneel in the dirt,
you examined its petals
felt its delicate leaves.
you picked the flower,
broke its roots,
and placed its unchained stem into your clasped hand.

you carried the flower with you
showed it to friends, acquaintances,
made everyone take notice
of the beauty you found.
and strangely enough,
this flower did not wilt,
but remained strongly vibrant
in its glass of water
as you carefully attended to it.

yet as the year continued,
you worried and wondered
if maybe your choosing of this flower hurt it.
was it meant to be connected with the earth?
should you have stood and turned away
without choosing this flower
and picking it up for your own?
was your breaking of the stem a mistake?
should you have left it?

these questions filled your mind.
yet your flower remained vibrant and strong
in her glass of water.
confined, no, now free.
and freedom brings its own nourishment.
nourishment that cannot be found
attached to the ground.
you chose the flower above the rest,
and picked her to be yours.

will you keep me?
you have freed me.
my glass of water is refreshing.
your hand clasping my stem is enough
for me to stay and choose you
above the sun, more than the soil,
i cannot wilt if you take care of me as you have.
for a broken stem and a chosen flower
cannot be returned.

i must be kept or left to die.

poem by Lors Dilouley
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Italian Myrtles

By many a soft Ligurian bay
The myrtles glisten green and bright,
Gleam with their flowers of snow by day,
And glow with fire-flies through the night,
And yet, despite the cold and heat,
Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.

There is an island in the West,
Where living myrtles bloom and blow,
Hearts where the fire-fly Love my rest
Within a paradise of snow-
Which yet, despite the cold and heat,
Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.

Deep in that gentle breast of thine-
Like fire and snow within the pearl-
Let purity and love combine,
O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl!
And in the cold and in the heat
Be ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.

Thy bosom bears as pure a snow
As e'er Italia's bowers can boast,
And though no fire-fly lends its glow-
As on the soft Ligurian coast-
'Tis warmed by an internal heat
Which ever keeps it pure and sweet.

The fire-flies fade on misty eves-
The inner fires alone endure;
Like rain that wets the leaves,
Thy very sorrows keep thee pure-
They temper a too ardent heat-
And keep thee ever pure and sweet.

poem by Denis Florence MacCarthy
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Brownie, Brownie, Let Down Your Milk

Brownie, Brownie, let down your milk
White as swansdown and smooth as silk,
Fresh as dew and pure as snow:
For I know where the cowslips blow,
And you shall have a cowslip wreath
No sweeter scented than your breath.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The Easter Flower

Far from this foreign Easter damp and chilly
My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground,
Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily
Soft-scented in the air for yards around;

Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf!
Just like a fragile bell of silver rime,
It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief
In the young pregnant year at Eastertime;

And many thought it was a sacred sign,
And some called it the resurrection flower;
And I, a pagan, worshiped at its shrine,
Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power.

poem by Claude McKay
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Stupidity

Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch
I broke and bruised your rose.
I hardly could suppose
It were a thing so fragile that my clutch
Could kill it, thus.

It stood so proudly up upon its stem,
I knew no thought of fear,
And coming very near
Fell, overbalanced, to your garment's hem,
Tearing it down.

Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one,
The crimson petals, all
Outspread about my fall.
They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone
Of memory.

And with my words I carve a little jar
To keep their scented dust,
Which, opening, you must
Breathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far
More grieved than you.

poem by Amy Lowell
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I See You Move With The Agility Of A Deer

I see you move with the agility of a deer,
your dark brown eyes glow luminous,
you black hair is braided into many strands
and there is something fragile petite about you.

Although mature, maybe you are too young for me
but there is a kind of attraction that really catches,
when the pool of your eyes reflects my face,
something pure and great and lovely to you.

Somehow you stun me, stop me in my tracks
like a black butterfly with magical bright specks,
I continually see you fluttering on a fragile wing
and know how easily I could fall in love with you.

poem by Gert Strydom
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O Moon

O moon, large golden summer moon,
Hanging between the linden trees,
Which in the intermittent breeze
Beat with the rhythmic pulse of June!

O night-air, scented through and through
With honey-coloured flower of lime,
Sweet now as in that other time
When all my heart was sweet as you!

The sorcery of this breathing bloom
Works like enchantment in my brain,
Till, shuddering back to life again,
My dead self rises from its tomb.

And, lovely with the love of yore,
Its white ghost haunts the moon-white ways;
But, when it meets me face to face,
Flies trembling to the grave once more.

poem by Mathilde Blind
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One Perfect Rose

A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet -
One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
'My fragile leaves,' it said, 'his heart enclose.'
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.

poem by Dorothy Parker
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Lady Love

How beautiful your face my Lady love
Full of peace, tenderness and hope
Your voice is sweet my turtledove
You my scented letter
I your envelope...

poem by Ray Lucero
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I dreamt of walking in a lovely garden

(after Percy Bysshe Shelley)

I dreamt of walking in a lovely garden
and it was in the time of spring
where sprouts appeared where the ground did harden
and everywhere I could hear birds sing.

Around me there were flowers everywhere,
irises in colours of yellow, purple and blue,
scented roses in white, orange and red that made me stare
at their particular lovely hue.

Everything was fresh and new after the rain showers
and in that garden I was somewhat cosy,
I wanted to pick a bunch of flowers,
tie them into a scented posy

and I wondered for who,
as no one to me was true.

[Reference: “The Question” by Percy Bysshe Shelley.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Guilt Will Wilt The Sweetest Flower

[Song Lyric]

Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower,
Cause the very sun to glower,
Though the skies their tears may shower.
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.

Shame will tame the lion's power,
Make the boldest warrior cower,
Turn the taste of triumph sour.
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.

For each mister, miss, or madam,
Son or lover— this is so.
In the Bible Eve and Adam
Did discover long ago...

That guilt will wilt the sweetest flower,
Steal the pleasure from the hour,
Even in the greenest bower—
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.

poem by Harley White
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How Many Times Have I Written The Morning As A Poem?

How many times have I written the morning as a poem?
This morning too is a poem-
How bright and beautiful
How filled with light
How flower- rich and spring scented
How quiet and calm
How new
How fresh the world beginning again
The morning is the poem today also
though I cannot know what will be
in the day to come.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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An Indian Love Song

He

Lift up the veils that darken the delicate moon
of thy glory and grace,
Withhold not, O love, from the night
of my longing the joy of thy luminous face,
Give me a spear of the scented keora
guarding thy pinioned curls,
Or a silken thread from the fringes
that trouble the dream of thy glimmering pearls;
Faint grows my soul with thy tresses' perfume
and the song of thy anklets' caprice,
Revive me, I pray, with the magical nectar
that dwells in the flower of thy kiss.

She

How shall I yield to the voice of thy pleading,
how shall I grant thy prayer,
Or give thee a rose-red silken tassel,
a scented leaf from my hair?
Or fling in the flame of thy heart's desire the veils that cover my face,
Profane the law of my father's creed for a foe
of my father's race?
Thy kinsmen have broken our sacred altars and slaughtered our sacred kine,
The feud of old faiths and the blood of old battles sever thy people and mine.

He

What are the sins of my race, Beloved,
what are my people to thee?
And what are thy shrines, and kine and kindred,
what are thy gods to me?
Love recks not of feuds and bitter follies,
of stranger, comrade or kin,
Alike in his ear sound the temple bells
and the cry of the muezzin.
For Love shall cancel the ancient wrong
and conquer the ancient rage,
Redeem with his tears the memoried sorrow
that sullied a bygone age.

poem by Sarojini Naidu
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Inspiration

let the brush begin
let the strokes be gentle
but let all these be
definite with a sense of
a mission
a purpose

paint me oranges
like suns
green patches of
grass
like peace
paint me the blueness
of the seven seas
let these be not as dark
as the night
let there be openings
like doors and
windows
so i can breathe

let me live
like i was once so alive
let me go through all these gently
like the fluttering wings
of a sky blue butterfly

you are my flower
scented with morning lemon
let me
on such a short moment
bloom
and then
even for a day
just a day
wilt with you.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Conspicuous by its Absence

While tending to the garden one balmy November,
Helping my mother wash the leaves of the dust,
And gently cut off the dead branches and flowers,
Spraying the ones still seeming bright and robust…

She picked some reeds lying by her side,
Puzzled, I asked what are these for mother.
They are for the infants of the garden my child,
They need support to grow and are called climbers.

Sweet pea is one garden flower of such a family,
So I am going to use these reeds to make a trellis.
By January, despite chill the flowers will be smiling gaily,
Soft hues, translucent, capricious and sweet scented...

They are really my favourite as they have no flamboyance,
Growing them is like meditation and needs a lot of patience.
Now, in gardens, they are conspicuous by their absence,
Perhaps because we like things with zero maintenance...

To thrive, plants or relationships need love and nurture
No wonder, they wilt and have an uncertain future....

poem by Mamta Agarwal
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