Ianthe’s Troubles
YOUR pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,
Cut down and up again as blithe as ever;
From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass
Like little ripples in a sunny river.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Related quotes
Ianthe
From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass
Like little ripples down a sunny river;
Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,
Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Spring
The alder by the river
Shakes out her powdery curls;
The willow buds in silver
For little boys and girls.
The little birds fly over
And oh, how sweet they sing!
To tell the happy children
That once again ’tis spring.
The gay green grass comes creeping
So soft beneath their feet;
The frogs begin to ripple
A music clear and sweet.
And buttercups are coming,
And scarlet columbine,
And in the sunny meadows
The dandelions shine.
And just as many daisies
As their soft hands can hold
The little ones may gather,
All fair in white and gold.
Here blows the warm red clover,
There peeps the violet blue;
O happy little children!
God made them all for you.
poem by Celia Thaxter
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The Dumb Soldier
When the grass was closely mown,
Walking on the lawn alone,
In the turf a hole I found
And hid a soldier underground.
Spring and daisies came apace;
Grasses hid my hiding-place;
Grasses run like a green sea
O'er the lawn up to my knee.
Under grass alone he lies,
Looking up with leaden eyes,
Scarlet coat and pointed gun,
To the stars and to the sun.
When the grass is ripe like grain,
When the scythe is stoned again,
When the lawn is shaven clear,
Then my hole shall reappear.
I shall find him, never fear,
I shall find my grenadier;
But, for all that's gone and come,
I shall find my soldier dumb.
He has lived, a little thing,
In the grassy woods of spring;
Done, if he could tell me true,
Just as I should like to do.
He has seen the starry hours
And the springing of the flowers;
And the fairy things that pass
In the forests of the grass.
In the silence he has heard
Talking bee and ladybird,
And the butterfly has flown
O'er him as he lay alone.
Not a word will he disclose,
Not a word of all he knows.
I must lay him on the shelf,
And make up the tale myself.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Elegiac I.
From thy far sources, 'mid mountains airily climbing,
Pass to the rich lowland, thou busy sunny river;
Murmuring once, dimpling, pellucid, limpid, abundant,
Deepening now, widening, swelling, a lordly river.
Through woodlands steering, with branches waving above thee,
Through the meadows sinuous, wandering irriguous;
Towns, hamlets leaving, towns by thee, bridges across thee,
Pass to palace garden, pass to cities populous.
Murmuring once, dimpling, ’mid woodlands wandering idly,
Now with mighty vessels loaded, a mighty river.
Pass to the great waters, though tides may seem to resist thee,
Tides to resist seeming, quickly will lend thee passage,
Pass to the dark waters that roaring wait to receive thee;
Pass them thou wilt not, thou busy sunny river.
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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Blow Away
May your troubles blow away,
so far away, with the whistling wind,
never to pass this way, ever again;
your feet on your own path
follow it faithfully, don't ever look back.
May your troubles blow away.
a smile on your face
knowing you go at your own pace.
May your troubles blow away.
even if friends who care are very few
you do what you've got to do.
May your troubles blow away.
stay forever true
to what it is your heart says to you.
May your troubles blow away.
don't lose hope
just keep going, and cut the binding ropes.
May your troubles blow away.
when everyone says you're different, and should change
you remember, you've got your own soul, your own name.
May your troubles blow away.
if you ever feel all alone
look way ahead, in the dark see there, the glowing lights of home.
May your troubles blow away.
keep singing the song God gave your soul
you know, somehow, you'll get where it is you've got to go.
May your troubles blow away,
so far away, with the whistling wind,
never to pass this way, ever again.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Barley Grass
Wavin' corn upon the hillside,
Twinklin' daisies on the rise,
Mystic bushes across the ranges,
Wattle in its spring-time guise,
Stately gums that mark the twinin's
Of the ole creek - let 'em pass.
Leave me here to lie, a-lazin'
In the noddin' barley grass.
Barley grass was noddin', noddin'
'Long the dear ole township track
Where, in school days, we were ploddin':
Four mile there an' four mile back.
Teacher, on the summer mornin's,
Called us, scoldin', from the class,
An' we wasted precious moments
Pickin' out the barley grass.
Barley grass insinuatin',
In a summer long ago,
Gained a girl maternal ratin',
Made a chap a holy show.
'Some one's been to walk with some one
Down the creek-side with a lass.
Fie, it ain't no use denyin'
Tell-tale seeds of barley grass.'
Came a time, when fortune frownin'
Sent a spring in cruel guise:
Wilted corn upon the hillside,
Brown soil barren on the rise,
Droopin' gums along the ole creek
Dry beneath a sky of brass;
An' we longed for just the sight of
One green tuft of barley grass.
But we battle on together,
Her an' me that mockin' spring,
Never losin' faith or doubting'
What the future was to bring.
Watchin', waitin' for the dawnin',
For the time of trial to pass;
An' 'twas her that found one mornin'
That first peep of barley grass.
We don't want no wreath of roses,
We don't want no immortelles,
When the last of us reposes
In the last of earthly spells.
Plant above - we ain't presumin'
To be writ on stone or brass
Just a modest, unassumin',
Simple bit of barley grass.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Scythe Song
MOWERS, weary and brown, and blithe,
What is the word methinks ye know,
Endless over-word that the Scythe
Sings to the blades of the grass below?
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,
Something, still, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,
Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?
Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying,
Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying;
Hush, they sing to the clover deep!
Hush—’t is the lullaby Time is singing—
Hush, and heed not, for all things pass;
Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging
Over the clover, over the grass!
poem by Andrew Lang
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Summer Song
THERE are white moon daisies in the mist of the meadow
Where the flowered grass scatters its seeds like spray,
There are purple orchis by the wood-ways' shadow,
There are pale dog-roses by the white highway;
And the grass, the grass is tall, the grass is up for hay,
With daisies white like silver and buttercups like gold,
And it's oh! for once to play thro' the long, the lovely day,
To laugh before the year grows old!
There is silver moonlight on the breast of the river
Where the willows tremble to the kiss of night,
Where the nine tall aspens in the meadow shiver,
Shiver in the night wind that turns them white.
And the lamps, the lamps are lit, the lamps are glow-worms light,
Between the silver aspens and the west's last gold.
And it's oh! to drink delight in the lovely lonely night,
To be young before the heart grows old!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Daisies All Over My Body
let daisies rain on
me and let all the daisies
cover my face my body
let daisies crown my head
my hair, my nose, let there
be daisies everywhere
inside, outside me
i am in love.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Whippoorwill River
(Vince Gill / Dean Dillon)
My dad was a man
With two hard workin' hands
He always took time out for me
Well, I'd come home from school
Load up that canoe
He'd say, "What's the bet gonna be?"
Chorus:
We'd float that boat down old Whippoorwill River
Catch us a big one or two
Well, he taught me about life
And its simple pleasures
And whatever else that he knew.
Then I met a girl
With a head full of curls
A pure and innocent heart
Oh, I knew she was the one
And when weekends would come
Wild horses couldn't keep us apart.
Chorus:
We'd run those ponies down Whippoorwill River
And I'd steal a sweet kiss or two
She taught me about love
And its simple pleasures
And whatever else that she knew.
Well, I married that girl
And we have a song
And he looks like my daddy used to
Oh, his mom and I
Always find time
To do things that he likes to do.
Chorus:
Well, he loves to go fishing on Whippoorwill River
And ride in his grandad's canoe
We teach hima bout life
And its simple pleasures
And pass down a memory or two.
Yeah, he loves to go fishing on Whippoorwill River
And catch him a big one or two
He's learning about life
And its simple pleasures
And making a memory or two.
Ooh...
song performed by by Vince Gill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Winter-Thought
The wind-swayed daisies, that on every side
Throng the wide fields in whispering companies,
Serene and gently smiling like the eyes
Of tender children long beatified,
The delicate thought-wrapped buttercups that glide
Like sparks of fire above the wavering grass,
And swing and toss with all the airs that pass,
Yet seem so peaceful, so preoccupied;
These are the emblems of pure pleasures flown,
I scarce can think of pleasure without these.
Even to dream of them is to disown
The cold forlorn midwinter reveries,
Lulled with the perfume of old hopes new-blown,
No longer dreams, but dear realities.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Greasy Grass River
Written by: r. robinson & c. robinson
Now Im swimming in the greasy grass river
On my way to the black pearl sea
Yeah Im floating down the greasy grass river
Come one child come with me
Life is so easy on greasy grass river
Just take my hand and we can pretend to be free
You wanna be
Free
Come on with me
Take me down to the greasy grass river
Wash my hands where the water is clean
Lay me down by the greasy grass river
And unfold my mystery
The greasy grass river has water that whispers
Lets listen closely while
She says she wants to be free
You wanna be
Free
You know what I mean?
Outro:
Im out of my pocket and Im out on my mind
Im out of my pocket and Im out on my mind
Im out of my pocket and Im out on my mind
Im out of my pocket and Im out on my mind
song performed by by Black Crowes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Help Myself
A hungry boy
In a town of one hundred more
The food is out the door
Makes me want to help myself, help my-
A river red
Pouring from the side of his head
A bullet through the brain
Make him feel different today
Oh, colder grow the days
Oh, must faster pass the years by
til we die
A treasure not my own
I take it, tuck it, nobody will notice
Well that suits me well
Big house, big yard, help myself, help myself
You know, every once in a while
To help the helpless comes into style
Mercy, mercy mile
1-800-help-myself, help myself
Oh, colder grow the days
Oh, much fast pass the years by
Oh, colder grow the days
Oh, much faster pass the years by
til we die
Summers here were dancing in the daisies
Summers rain burns holes in the flowers
Dangerous hours
Dangerous hours
Dangerous hours
Every now and then
Tv preachers tell of heaven
Redemption for a penny a soul
1-800- help-yourself, help yourself
Help yourself, oh
Summers here, were swimming in the river
Summer rain, come down, come down, come down, come down yeah
Summers here, were dancing in the daisies
Summer rain burns holes in the flowers
Dangerous hours
Dangerous hours
Dangerous hours
song performed by by Dave Matthews Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wild Asters
In the spring I asked the daisies
If his words were true,
And the clever, clear-eyed daisies
Always knew.
Now the fields are brown and barren,
Bitter autumn blows,
And of all the stupid asters
Not one knows.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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The Charm
LIKE crimson lamps the tulips swing,
The lily flowers their incense bring,
The daisies votive garlands fling
Before the altar of the Spring.
And you and I in this green May,
When thrushes sing, and white lambs play,
Go glad at heart--so glad and gay,
No word seems good enough to say.
Yet there's a charm, it would appear,
Which, if I spoke it in your ear,
Would fix the spring for ever here;
Pass on--I will not speak it, dear.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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A bridge of joy
The things we did were quite insane.
But that's how joy came to pass…
As we cut the turf and made a bridge
Out of lush green; meadow grass.
Knowing only all too full well nothing
On this earth or river shall ever last.
Then gazed in awe, when all was laid
And done the river dammed 6ft or more
Our heart beats beating their full score
With aloud furor as we ran across…
"5 times or more and, yes…
The things we did were quite insane".
But that's how joy came to pass…
As the river washed
The last sods of earth away to the last.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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To Jośe Marίa Palacio
Palacio, good friend,
is spring there
showing itself on branches of black poplars
by the roads and river? On the steeps
of the high Duero, spring is late,
but so soft and lovely when it comes!
Are there a few new leaves
on the old elms?
The acacias must still be bare,
and the mountain peaks snow-filled.
Oh the massed pinks and whites
of Moncayo, massed up there,
beauty, in the sky of Aragon!
Are there brambles flowering,
among the grey stones,
and white daisies,
in the thin grass?
On the belltowers
the storks will be landing now.
The wheat must be green
and the brown mules working sown furrows,
the people seeding late crops,
in April rain. There’ll be bees,
drunk on rosemary and thyme.
Are the plum trees in flower? Violets still?
There must be hunters about, stealthy,
their decoys under long capes.
Palacio, good friend,
are there nightingales by the river?
When the first lilies,
and the first roses, open,
on a blue evening, climb to Espino,
high Espino, where she is in the earth.
poem by Antonio Machado
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Clover, Daisies and Grass
Clover daisies and grass
spread out pink, white and greens
on the carpet in front of me.
A thousand heads of clover
and daisies dotted on the green
as far as the eyes can see.
No sea of turmoil there
as each has its own plot there.
(7 July 2007)
poem by David Harris
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The Last Season
i now welcome the last season
it is not winter, it is the season of
forgetting, and next to it is spring
not really spring in the manner that
flowers bloom again
but it is the season for us who divided
by a very distant silence
shall begin a new journey
alone, because we want to think some more
without us together
a pair of tracks, crossing a river
a new slate of water erasing what
we have gone through
for we rise from the river and
approach another plain
it is the grass now that conceals
what our feet tread upon
it is the sound of softness
that greenness of
undiscovered ways
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Framing a spurt of Spring
the day is baroque
with daisies' faces
lifted to the sun
my feet lift and knock
on spring's lenient ground
where tortoises' dance
lead them to drink from proud
prickly pear's leaf
and rocks are small
under the yellow rays
of the round clock
the slow spring day
is ticking and saying
the day is baroque
and colour licks
an orange shock
for autumn's mind
left summer behind
in green thorny itch
and I am treading
an interesting quest
for prickly pear's nest
in a field of daisies
and winter's leaking ills
in the splendor of spring