Come With The Summer Leaves
Come with the summer leaves, love, to my grave,
And, if you doubt among the quiet dead,
Choose out that mound where greenest grasses wave
And where the flowers grow thickest and most red.
Come in the morning while the dews of night,
Which are fair Nature's tears in darkness shed,
Rim the sad petals nor are garnered quite,
Like my lost hopes untimely harvested.
Come to my grave--ah gather, love, those flowers!
Out of my heart they grow for your dear head.
These are its songs unwritten and all yours,
The love I loved you with and left unsaid.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Graves
I dreamed one man stood against a thousand,
One man damned as a wrongheaded fool.
One year and another he walked the streets,
And a thousand shrugs and hoots
Met him in the shoulders and mouths he passed.
He died alone.
And only the undertaker came to his funeral.
Flowers grow over his grave anod in the wind,
And over the graves of the thousand, too,
The flowers grow anod in the wind.
Flowers and the wind,
Flowers anod over the graves of the dead,
Petals of red, leaves of yellow, streaks of white,
Masses of purple sagging…
I love you and your great way of forgetting.
poem by Carl Sandburg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Temptation
YOU bring your love too late, dear, I have no love to buy it,
I spent my love on worthless toys, at fairs you do not know;
I am a bankrupt trader--dear eyes, do not deny it,
I could have bought your love, dear, but that was long ago.
My soul has left me widowed, my heart has made me orphan,
Leave me--all good things, dear, have left me--leave me too!
For here is ice no tears of yours, no smiles of yours can soften:
Leave me, leave me, leave me, I have no love for you!
I have no flowers to give you, they grow not in my garden;
I have no songs to sing you, my songs have all been sung;
I have no hope of heaven, no faith in any pardon,
I might have loved you once, dear, when I was good and young.
I will not steal, nor cheat you; take back the heart you lent me.
O God, whom I have outraged, now teach me how to pray,
That love come never again so near me to torment me,
Lest I be found less faithful than, by Thy grace, to-day.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
And When He Turns To Dust
and then he is laid to rest
and be left in the silence of his grave...
the grasses take charge and
some seeds may grow to make flowers
no, not for him anymore
he turns to bones to dust he shall return
and there will be no more songs
no poems, not even his name shall be remembered
his songs perhaps but only for a while
our destiny like his is always in the beauty of forgetting...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Her Memories
NOT by her grave: thither I bid them take
Fresh garlands of the flowers that pleased her best,
And lay them by the headstone, for my sake,
My token and remembrance with the rest:
But here, where in the brightening of the west
I see her mountains grow into the sky,
Her native world, and mine because of her,
Here, where that low sigh of the pinewood's stir,
That was her dearest music, fills all sound
,I am with her;
And always, always, past comes passing by,
Lost in her grave, but here as if half found.
Not by her grave: it is too still, too cold,
And save my loss is nothing with me there.
What memories have I there of her of old?
They came not there, the dear lost days that were;
Not she lies there, but only my despair;
Not she, but death and all my loneliness.
What memories save all memories love must shun?
I would not think of death and her as one;
She shall be only life-ful in my mind,
With life's self one;
A name of glad remindings and old bliss,
So something of her presence left behind.
Not by her grave: some day will I return,
When sorrow keeps its wont unvexed by place,
And, sitting on the turf beside, will learn
To call before me there her waking face,
Not that white face that slept and took no trace
Of change because I kissed it, nor for tears.
Some day; for now I should forget her so,
Lose the fair happy woman and but know
The coldness and the silence when she died,
Lose her all so,
My love that was my life of all for years.
She loved this music when the pinewoods sighed.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Flowers for a Grave
Flowers for a Grave.
A life time of love gave.
A wonderfall person to miss.
Words left unspoken,
now must stay that way.
I just hope you knew that,
I loved you with all my heart.
Tears escape from my eyes.
Like an ever flowing river.
But it's in silence that I cry.
So no one else can see my pain.
I try to hide it well.
But the truth is my heart is broken.
I miss you and I need you.
Why did you have to go.
All I can do now is leave flowers on your grave.
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I'll ask a Bluebird…
I'll ask a bluebird
To sing a summer song
Tones so lovely slurred
For life is coming along
Each day and night tender
Of love songs in the air
My thoughts to this surrender
In tunes of moments fair
I'll ask a thrush that plays
Its summer forest songs
Why each of them dallies
To a heart that longs
When breezy are the leaves
Of the wandering hour
With many thoughts of eves
For the meadow flower
Night of late shall come
To every summer singing
Growing on tincturing blossom
An end to their dreams bringing
For love shall fly away
Into another living wave
Where flowers in wind sway
With the new songs to crave
poem by Peter S. Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Penance
My lover died a century ago,
Her dear heart stricken by my sland'rous breath,
Wherefore the Gods forbade that I should know
The peace of death.
Men pass my grave, and say, "'Twere well to sleep,
Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!"
How should they know the vigils that I keep,
The tears I shed?
Upon the grave, I count with lifeless breath,
Each night, each year, the flowers that bloom and die,
Deeming the leaves, that fall to dreamless death,
More blest than I.
'Twas just last year -- I heard two lovers pass
So near, I caught the tender words he said:
To-night the rain-drenched breezes sway the grass
Above his head.
That night full envious of his life was I,
That youth and love should stand at his behest;
To-night, I envy him, that he should lie
At utter rest.
poem by John McCrae
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Until death
Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend,
To love me, though I die, thy whole life long,
And love no other till thy days shall end;
Nay, it were rash and wrong.
If thou canst love another, be it so;
I would not reach out of my quiet grave
To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go:
Love should not be a slave.
My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene
In clearer light than gilds these earthly morns,
Above the jealousies and envies keen
Which sow this life with thorns.
Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress,
If after death my soul should linger here;
Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness,
Love's presence, warm and near.
It would not make me sleep more peacefully
That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe
For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me
Bestow it ere I go.
Carve not upon a stone when I am dead
The praises which remorseful mourners give
To women's graces,---a tardy recompense,---
But speak thou while I live.
Heap not the heavy marble on my head
To shut away the sunshine and the dew;
Let small blooms grow there and let grasses wave,
And raindrops filter through.
Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay
Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find
One who will love and serve thee night and day
With a more single mind.
Forget me when I die!---the violets
Above my rest will blossom just as blue,
Nor miss thy tears: e'en Nature's self forgets;---
But while I live, be true!
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Dead Flowers
When you're sitting there, in your silk upholstered cahir
Talkin' to some rich folk that you know.
I hope you won't see me, and my ragged company
Cause you know I could never be alone
Take me down little Susie, take me down
I know you think you're the queen of the underground
And you can send me dead flowers every morning,
Send me dead flowers by th U.S. Mail,
Send me dead flowers to my wedding,
And I won't forget to put roses on your grave.
When you're sitting back, in your rose pink, Cadillac
Making bets on Kentucky Derby day
I'll be in my basement room, with a needle, and a spoon
And another whore to take my pain away
Take me down, little Susie take me down
I know you think you're the queen of the underground.
And you can send me dead flowers every morning.
Send me dead flowers by the U.S Mail.
Send me dead flowers to my wedding
And I won't forget to put roses on your grave
Take me down, little Susie take me down
I know you think you're the queen of the underground.
And you can send me dead flowers every morning.
Send me dead flowers by the U.S Mail.
Say it with dead flowers in my wedding
And I won't forget to put roses on your grave
No, I won't forget to put roses on your grave
song performed by by Guns N' Roses
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
To A Friend Who Likes To Have Beauty In Her Hands
you do not gather the flowers
that easily from the sides of the hill
where you were never there
once
planting the seeds
nothing comes by chance or random
nothing sprouts just like magical seeds
using the lighted wand of your
fairy godmother
the flowers grow and bloom there
because someone took the burden
of seeding, transplanting, watering
and pruning them
these flowers are taken cared of
by loving hands
do not think that there is no sweat at all shed from the brows
for something so beautiful to land in your hands
or even by an accidental gaze hovering in the
retina of your eyes
he spent the sleepless nights watching the flowers
he bowed down to earth as though asking for the mercy
of the gods
he prayed and worked hard then beauty comes
in the grandeur of its petals in the dignity of its perfume
arrayed by the pearls of the dews
and salted by the power
of his tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: LXXXV
THE SAME CONTINUED
These flowers shall be my offering, living flowers
Which here shall die with you in sacrifice,
Flowers from the empty fields which once were yours
And now are mine. No gold, nor myrrh, nor spice,
Nor any dead man's offering may suffice.
I love not flowers: but thus to deck a grave
Which has no need of things of greater price.
Life is the only tribute death would have.
--Ah, thou art dead. Mine is this fair domain
With all its living beauty and brave shows
Of lawn, and lake, and garden; mine the increase
Of the year's harvest, the slow growth of trees,
And that fair natural wealth we loved in vain,
Flowers, which shall never more adorn my house.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Remembrance
I.
Swifter far than summer's flight--
Swifter far than youth’s delight--
Swifter far than happy night,
Art thou come and gone--
As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone, alone.
II.
The swallow summer comes again--
The owlet night resumes her reign--
But the wild-swan youth is fain
To fly with thee, false as thou.--
My heart each day desires the morrow;
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow;
Vainly would my winter borrow
Sunny leaves from any bough.
III.
Lilies for a bridal bed--
Roses for a matron’s head--
Violets for a maiden dead--
Pansies let MY flowers be:
On the living grave I bear
Scatter them without a tear--
Let no friend, however dear,
Waste one hope, one fear for me.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dear Summer
Dear summer,
It all happen on april 13th
It was the brightest day I have seen
The sun was shinning bright and the air was fresh,
And the green grass remind me why you summer are the best.
I no longer felt down cause you were around
Aand I felt like the luckiest girl cause it was summer I found
I thought of how I could repay you for all the love you gave me
Cause summer your love was simply amazing
You made the dead butterflies in my stomach revive
How can summer this year make me feel so alive?
I could of sworn this summer would last me forever
But everyone would warn me to be a bit clever
Cause seasons always change and weather changes moods.
And when my summer is here she helps the flowers bloom
But the flowers all die when its winter cause of the cold
I guess no one takes heed to what they are told.
Well im sorry my summer but today the sun isn't shining as bright
And when day light savings bbegins I gets colder at night.
Summer I noticed the leaves are starting to die
And the flowers that you love are no longer alive.
All the birds fly north and I just feel empty inside.
All of this is happening summer cause you were a lie.
They're all sick of the false hopes that you have brought them
But maybe we'll all find real love in autumn.
poem by Selina Cobain
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Appeal
ALL summer-time you said:
'Love has no need of shelter nor of kindness,
For all the flowers take pity on his blindness,
And lead him to his scented rose-soft bed.'
'He is a king,' you said.
'That I bow not the knee will never grieve him,
For all the summer-palaces receive him.'
But now Love has not where to lay his head.
'He is a god,' you said.
'His altars are wherever roses blossom.'
And summer made his altar of her bosom,
But now the altar is ungarlanded.
Take back the words you said:
Out in the rain he shivers broken-hearted;
Summer who bore him has with tears departed,
And o'er her grave he weeps uncomforted.
And you, for all you said,
Would weep too, if when dawn stills the wind's riot,
You found him on your threshold, pale and quiet,
Clasped him at last, and found the child was dead.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Argument With You
you must not expect that i give up
the world that i built for all my years
my sweat my labor my dreams
shall they all perish this minute
just for me to prove that
i love you? if you love me enough
you must not attempt to destroy
my world
you must let it grow and lavish
upon itself the fruits
and flowers and seeds
as i have loved you and as you have loved me
we must keep this secret garden
no one must know not even the left hand
of yourself
we make this love hidden from the eyes of all of them
a love misunderstood
as sin
for in the darkness of the nights of our beings
this love glistens as the most beautiful star
you must wake in the middle of the night
to see how beautiful it is when left alone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Coronal
WITH HIS SONGS AND HER DAYS TO HIS LADY AND TO LOVE
Violets and leaves of vine,
Into a frail, fair wreath
We gather and entwine:
A wreath for Love to wear,
Fragrant as his own breath,
To crown his brow divine,
All day till night is near.
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine
For Love that lives a day,
We gather and entwine.
All day till Love is dead,
Till eve falls, cold and gray,
These blossoms, yours and mine,
Love wears upon his head,
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine,
For Love when poor Love dies
We gather and entwine.
This wreath that lives a day
Over his pale, cold eyes,
Kissed shut by Proserpine,
At set of sun we lay:
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Quid Non Supremus, Amantes?
Why is there in the least touch of her hands
More grace than other women's lips bestow,
If love is but a slave in fleshly bands
Of flesh to flesh, wherever love may go?
Why choose vain grief and heavy-hearted hours
For her lost voice, and dear remembered hair,
If love may cull his honey from all flowers,
And girls grow thick as violets, everywhere?
Nay! She is gone, and all things fall apart;
Or she is cold, and vainly have we prayed;
And broken is the summer's splendid heart,
And hope within a deep, dark grave is laid.
As man aspires and falls, yet a soul springs
Out of his agony of flesh at last,
So love that flesh enthralls, shall rise on wings
Soul-centred, when the rule of flesh is past.
Then, most High Love, or wreathed with myrtle sprays,
Or crownless and forlorn, nor less a star,
Thee may I serve and follow, all my days,
Whose thorns are sweet as never roses are!
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Memorial to Lost Love
Closing doors to a former love
Like graveyard soil thrown down a coffin
Will then be sealed by the rain above
To silence all passion felt therein.
Farewells like flowers lace the grave
Will soon dry up, wither, and die
Tears that flowed can never be saved
For the former love, in sleep there lie.
Closing doors leaves a permanence
Love's epitaph of finality
Snuffing out all remaining essence
To face the inevitable, Reality.
Goodbyes are distant words unsaid
Only the speech of grieving hearts
Bury the love that is now dead
Its cooling embers too soon depart.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Death Is a Mockery of Life
Death is a mockery of life
They who have lived it through, are dead
So what about death can be said
It lingers in the living room after the funeral
They who have lived it through are dead
We do not speak of death too much
It lingers in the living room after the funeral
We try not to think about the lonely grave
We do not speak of deah too much
It is always raining in the grave yard
We try not to think about the lonely grave
Where no one seems to be, but only was
It is always raining in the grave yard
Some flowers grow between the tombstones
As nature doesn’t care about it, live or death
Just carry on as usual
Some flowers grow between the tombstones
So what about death can be said
Just carry on as usual
Death is a mockery of life
poem by Ina SchrodersZeeders
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!