Another
Tis a moon-tinted primrose, with a well
Of trembling dew; in its soft atmosphere,
A tiny whirlwind of sweet smells, doth swell
A lady bird; and when no sound is near
That elfin hermit fans the fairy bell
With glazen wings, (mirrors on which appear
Atoms of colours that flizz by unseen
And struts about his darling flower with pride.
But, if some buzzing gnat with pettish spleen
Come whining by, the insect ‘gins to hide
And folds its flimsy drapery between
His speckled buckler and soft silken side.
So poets fly the critics snappish heat,
And sheath their minds in scorn and self-conceit
poem by Thomas Lovell Beddoes
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Fairy Song
The moonlight fades from flower and rose
And the stars dim one by one;
The tale is told, the song is sung,
And the Fairy feast is done.
The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers,
And sings to them, soft and low.
The early birds erelong will wake:
'T is time for the Elves to go.
O'er the sleeping earth we silently pass,
Unseen by mortal eye,
And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float
Through the quiet moonlit sky;--
For the stars' soft eyes alone may see,
And the flowers alone may know,
The feasts we hold, the tales we tell;
So't is time for the Elves to go.
From bird, and blossom, and bee,
We learn the lessons they teach;
And seek, by kindly deeds, to win
A loving friend in each.
And though unseen on earth we dwell,
Sweet voices whisper low,
And gentle hearts most joyously greet
The Elves where'er they go.
When next we meet in the Fairy dell,
May the silver moon's soft light
Shine then on faces gay as now,
And Elfin hearts as light.
Now spread each wing, for the eastern sky
With sunlight soon shall glow.
The morning star shall light us home:
Farewell! for the Elves must go.
poem by Louisa May Alcott
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O' Violence In The Mind Of Spinsters!
A tiny insect bite,
On the slender foot
Of adolescent girl!
Her feet are soft like petal,
The pain is so severe,
She gets lot of tears!
Soft nature in her disappears,
Smashed the insect to smears,
O' Violence in the mind of spinsters!
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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The Henchman
My lady walks her morning round,
My lady's page her fleet greyhound,
My lady's hair the fond winds stir,
And all the birds make songs for her.
Her thrushes sing in Rathburn bowers,
And Rathburn side is gay with flowers;
But ne'er like hers, in flower or bird,
Was beauty seen or music heard.
The distance of the stars is hers;
The least of all her worshippers,
The dust beneath her dainty heel,
She knows not that I see or feel.
Oh, proud and calm!-she cannot know
Where'er she goes with her I go;
Oh, cold and fair!-she cannot guess
I kneel to share her hound's caress!
Gay knights beside her hunt and hawk,
I rob their ears of her sweet talk;
Her suitors come from east and west,
I steal her smiles from every guest.
Unheard of her, in loving words,
I greet her with the song of birds;
I reach her with her green-armed bowers,
I kiss her with the lips of flowers.
The hound and I are on her trail,
The wind and I uplift her veil;
As if the calm, cold moon she were,
And I the tide, I follow her.
As unrebuked as they, I share
The license of the sun and air,
And in a common homage hide
My worship from her scorn and pride.
World-wide apart, and yet so near,
I breathe her charmed atmosphere,
Wherein to her my service brings
The reverence due to holy things.
Her maiden pride, her haughty name,
My dumb devotion shall not shame;
The love that no return doth crave
To knightly levels lifts the slave,
No lance have I, in joust or fight,
To splinter in my lady's sight
But, at her feet, how blest were I
For any need of hers to die!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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What lies on the other side of a dark moon
My darling says
look how bright is the moon
and the gold
appears on the other side,
of the window pane
where it hangs in a round ball
in the dark night.
It’s as if the stars
tonight are fading away
and every thing in the heaven,
disappears before the bright moon.
We lie on a three quarters bed
and I wonder how many kisses
are still destined for me
and her soft body,
are touching mine
while my hand
glide over her soft round curves.
Her breath tickles my neck
while the night folds around us
and when she disappears into sleep
I am still busy
watching the magical moon
and I wonder what lies on the other side
of a dark moon
and if the sky,
will then have more stars in it,
but the star
that shines the brightest to me
is still in my arms
when the moon disappears
in the early morning.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The fairy at the bottom of my Garden
There's a fairy at the bottom of my garden
she flits in and out of my flowers
I can sit on the step here
and watch her
she stays there for hours and hours
Her wings and so golden and flimsy
Her little body a few inches in size
but her heart is her biggest attraction
and that isn't any surprise
For the fairy at the bottom of my garden
spends her day saving the bees
for they keep on taking the pollen
but dropping it each time they sneeze
I bet you didn't know that the buzzers
had allergies from pollen, sad hey?
the sound that you thought was just buzzing
are bee's that are sneezing away
Now this fairy works hard as she
gathers the droplets of sweet
pollen that fall
diving and swooping and gathering up
and rolling it into a ball
She sings an enchanting little melody
that sounds like a gentle wind chime
Oh how I would love to have a fairy
to pick up after me all the time
poem by Janice M Pickett
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The Flowers
All the names I know from nurse:
Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,
Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,
And the Lady Hollyhock.
Fairy places, fairy things,
Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,
Tiny trees for tiny dames--
These must all be fairy names!
Tiny woods below whose boughs
Shady fairies weave a house;
Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,
Where the braver fairies climb!
Fair are grown-up people's trees,
But the fairest woods are these;
Where, if I were not so tall,
I should live for good and all.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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The Voice Of Beauty Drowned
'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!'
The other birds woke all around;
Rising with toot and howl they stirred
Their plumage, broke the trembling sound,
They craned their necks, they fluttered wings,
'While we are silent no one sings,
And while we sing you hush your throat,
Or tune your melody to our note.'
'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!'
The screams and hootings rose again:
They gaped with raucous beaks, they whirred
Their noisy plumage; small but plain
The lonely hidden singer made
A well of grief within the glade.
'Whist, silly fool, be off,' they shout,
'Or we'll come pluck your feathers out.'
'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!'
Slight and small the lovely cry
Came trickling down, but no one heard;
Parrot and cuckoo, crow, magpie,
Jarred horrid notes, the jangling jay
Ripped the fine threads of song away;
For why should peeping chick aspire
To challenge their loud woodland choir?
Cried it so sweet, that unseen bird?
Lovelier could no music be,
Clearer than water, soft as curd,
Fresh as the blossomed cherry tree.
How sang the others all around?
Piercing and harsh, a maddening sound,
With 'Pretty Poll, Tuwit-tuwoo
Peewit, Caw Caw, Cuckoo-Cuckoo.'
How went the song, how looked the bird?
If I could tell, if I could show
With one quick phrase, one lightning word,
I'd learn you more than poets know;
For poets, could they only catch
Of that forgotten tune one snatch,
Would build it up in song or sonnet,
And found their whole life's fame upon it.
poem by Robert Graves
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Anguish Thoughts
I saw a flower
Not so fresh, enchanting
It has no sweet smell as roses have.
But it has the thorns of roses.
If I touch a flower
I can tell its soft or rough
But all flowers are soft
Soft petals with sweet fragrance
Make a flower beloved.
But I can’t touch this flower
For it is dangerous.
But worms found its bed
And going to destroy my little flower.
Can this secret love
Destroy her crimson petals?
poem by Abdul Hakeem Parannur
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The Elfin Artist
In a glade of an elfin forest
When Sussex was Eden-new,
I came on an elvish painter
And watched as his picture grew,
A harebell nodded beside him.
He dipt his brush in the dew.
And it might be the wild thyme round him
That shone in the dark strange ring;
But his brushes were bees' antennae,
His knife was a wasp's blue sting;
And his gorgeous exquisite palette
Was a butterfly's fan-shaped wing.
And he mingled its powdery colours,
And painted the lights that pass,
On a delicate cobweb canvas
That gleamed like a magic glass,
And bloomed like a banner of elf-land,
Between two stalks of grass;
Till it shone like an angel's feather
With sky-born opal and rose,
And gold from the foot of the rainbow,
And colours that no man knows;
And I laughed in the sweet May weather,
Because of the themes he chose.
For he painted the things that matter,
The tints that we all pass by,
Like the little blue wreaths of incense
That the wild thyme breathes to the sky;
Or the first white bud of the hawthorn,
And the light in a blackbird's eye;
And the shadows on soft white cloud-peaks
That carolling skylarks throw,--
Dark dots on the slumbering splendours
That under the wild wings flow,
Wee shadows like violets trembling
On the unseen breasts of snow;
With petals too lovely for colour
That shake to the rapturous wings,
And grow as the bird draws near them,
And die as he mounts and sings,--
Ah, only those exquisite brushes
Could paint these marvellous things.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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If I build my life out of magical nights
If I build my life
out of magical nights
my room becomes a castle
where you and I share our dreams.
In the background there are violins
playing in a string orchestra
and the sound
that falls over us trembling
lies soft in our own small universe.
I see stars in your eyes
and maybe it’s Orion
or the sun up above
and at dusk the moon hangs
as if caught in its own orbit.
There’s a pearl around your neck
that’s whiter than snow,
but your rosebuds bloom
before my lips reach them.
Outside the rain falls buzzing
against the window,
but we are lock off from every thing
and I hear you moan in ecstasy
while a thunderbolt rumbles far away
and your are soft and hot around me
and forever I can stay like this.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Lacramioara-Lily of the valley-Suzuran
Lacramioara..
this flower's name
in my native tongue
comes from lacrima
It means..
a tear drop!
please, listen
to my say:
When you are sad,
watch this soul's clad
maybe this flower's Fairy
your tears
would transform in merry
Ring this flower's bell
and take deep breathe
of its smell
.. Relax, harder don't try
Just..for one moment
stop your cry
..start make own wish
and have a smile.
Then, the little Fairy
your tears would transform
in merry
So please, my dear friend:
Come, try one tiny smile,
for biggest ones and
for your sadness End
With all my my heart I'll pray:
-Your tears
forever to become
one of my little
tiny
fairy tale.
poem by Elena Sandu
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Hilltop Song
When the lights come out in the cottages
Along the shores at eve,
And across the darkening water
The last pale colours leave;
And up from the rock-ridged pasture slopes
The sheep-bell tinklings steal,
And the folds are shut, and the shepherds
Turn to their quiet meal;
And even here, on the unfenced height,
No journeying wind goes by,
But the earth-sweet smells and the home-sweet sounds
Mount, like prayer, to the sky;
Then from the door of my opened heart
Old blindness and pride are driven,
Till I know how high is the humble,
The dear earth how close to heaven.
poem by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
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A Clasp Of Hands
SOFT, small, and sweet as sunniest flowers
That bask in heavenly heat
When bud by bud breaks, breathes, and cowers,
Soft, small, and sweet.
A babe's hands open as to greet
The tender touch of ours
And mock with motion faint and fleet
The minutes of the new strange hours
That earth, not heaven, must mete;
Buds fragrant still from heaven's own bowers,
Soft, small, and sweet.
A velvet vice with springs of steel
That fasten in a trice
And clench the fingers fast that feel
A velvet viceÑ
What man would risk the danger twice,
Nor quake from head to heel?
Whom would not one such test suffice?
Well may we tremble as we kneel
In sight of Paradise,
If both a babe's closed fists conceal
A velvet vice.
Two flower-soft fists of conquering clutch,
Two creased and dimpled wrists,
That match, if mottled overmuch,
Two flower-soft fists---
What heart of man dare hold the lists
Against such odds and such
Sweet vantage as no strength resists?
Our strength is all a broken crutch,
Our eyes are dim with mists,
Our hearts are prisoners as we touch
Two flower-soft fists.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Memory
Brightly the sun of summer shone,
Green fields and waving woods upon,
And soft winds wandered by;
Above, a sky of purest blue,
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,
Allured the gazer's eye.
But what were all these charms to me,
When one sweet breath of memory
Came gently wafting by?
I closed my eyes against the day,
And called my willing soul away,
From earth, and air, and sky;
That I might simply fancy there
One little flower - a primrose fair,
Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening primrose seemed to me
A source of strange delight.
Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;
Nature's chief beauties spring from thee,
Oh, still thy tribute bring!
Still make the golden crocus shine
Among the flowers the most divine,
The glory of the spring.
Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell;
And hover round the slight blue bell,
My childhood's darling flower.
Smile on the little daisy still,
The buttercup's bright goblet fill
With all thy former power.
For ever hang thy dreamy spell
Round mountain star and heather bell,
And do not pass away
From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,
And whisper when the wild winds blow,
Or rippling waters play.
Is childhood, then, so all divine?
Or Memory, is the glory thine,
That haloes thus the past?
Not all divine; its pangs of grief,
(Although, perchance, their stay be brief,)
Are bitter while they last.
Nor is the glory all thine own,
For on our earliest joys alone
That holy light is cast.
With such a ray, no spell of thine
Can make our later pleasures shine,
Though long ago they passed.
poem by Anne Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Hummingbird
I seen a beautiful bird
from the distance, it looked buggy
as it got closer, it flashed many poses
its beautiful sound, it was bound for a feeder
it stopped in mid air, for us to glare
a speedy and gentle bird
zipping back and forth
teasing us with its moves
it showed us itself from above
wings flapping so fast
buzzing around, the pitch in prefect sound
it was a gorgeous bird
in awe how close it came
no fear, so dear
so sweet the Hummingbird
poem by Michael Peterson
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Mother Song
_From the Portuguese._
HEAVY my heart is, heavy to carry,
Full of soft foldings, of downy enwrapments--
And the outer fold of all is love,
And the next soft fold is love,
And the next, finer and softer, is love again;
And were they unwound before the eyes
More folds and more folds and more folds would unroll
Of love--always love,
And, quite at the last,
Deep in the nest, in the soft-packed nest,
One last fold, turned back, would disclose
You, little heart of my heart,
Laid there so warm, so soft, so soft,
Not knowing where you lie, nor how softly,
Nor why your nest is so soft,
Nor how your nest is so warm.
You, little heart of my heart,
You lie in my heart,
Warm, safe and soft as this body of yours,
This dear kissed body of yours that lies
Here in my arms and sucks the strength from my breast,
The strength you will break my heart with one of these days.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Unseen Worlds
On trade winds of time they travel by light
Their voices float on sound-lit beams
They fly just past our muted sight
On prism blessed transparent wings
A voice as soft as a fledgling dove
Breath as sweet as an angels love.
If sought with mortal eyes
They are masters of disguise
And forever will they elude
For only with the heart and soul
May the fairy world be viewed.
Once you've seen the fairy realm
You'll never disbelieve
The stories told in ancient times
Of kingdoms once perceived.
Be faithful to the mighty oak
For there in lies the portal
Most grand and wise of ancient trees
A hope for every mortal
So sad for those who can not see
A life of toil and fears
The magic warmth of fairy lights
Shall never dry their tears
On the day when realms collide
We'll see a new sunrise
And realities unseen to us
Will appear before our eyes
poem by Lynne FincherSpringarden
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Teen Aged Human...
The sleek bamboo shies away,
The stems of banana weep and cry,
Petals of chosen flowers hide and see,
How elegant you are at your teens, human.
The sun flowers just follow in obedience,
Where ever you go and disobedience,
To the sun is visually noted,
Angry sun looking for another flower,
To replace this infidel yellow flower.
When you walk in the garden,
The freshly bloomed flowers,
Close their petals,
For the fear of being ridiculed,
Just in the presence of,
your natural fragrance.
After Looking at your teeth,
Pearls of the ocean,
May go for a Whitening treat and
they may want to scale off the dirt that formed them.
When the wind meet the lady human at her teens,
It tries to blow as soft as the lady walks
When the moon meets the gentleman human at his teens,
She may show him the whitest face,
On full moon day to be his bride,
On new moon day.
If the sun passes by the lady human at her teens,
he will prostrate in front of her,
to choose him as a flower,
to wear on her plaited hair.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Forest Sprite
There was a little fairy
Sat beneath a tree -
Humming to her tiny self
A haunting melody;
Just a little tinkle
Was all that I could hear
Floating on the evening breeze
High and crystal clear;
Surrounded by a rainbow,
Sparkles lit the air -
Tiny wings did flutter
Sprinkling gold dust in her hair;
A tiny little forest sprite
Had slipped the bonds of space,
Perhaps a mere imagined thought
Had brought her to this place;
How sweet the sound she echoed
Within this forest spot -
Though I had never seen a sprite
Her image now I caught;
This tiny little fairy
Sat beneath a tree -
Humming to her tiny self
A haunting melody.
Gibberish
Many a flower have I seen blossom,
Many a bird for me will sing.
Never heard I so sweet a singer,
Never saw I so fair a thing.
She is a bird, a bird that blossoms,
She is a flower, a flower that sings;
And I a flower when I behold her,
And when I hear her, I have wings.
poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
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