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
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Related quotes
Flowers
(orbison/dees)
When I was a boy I ran among the flowers
Looking left and right at the bright array
I played through the spring, whiled away the hours
Lingered with the flowers every day
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, along the way
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, along the way
When the summer ends and the storms of life are over
When the winter comes and the petals fall away
They may write it on my stone, he was just a roller
But he stopped to pick some flowers along the way
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, picked some flowers, along the way
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
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Bring Me Flowers
Bring me flowers when I am living
Don't bring me them when I am dead
Let me enjoy them in the giving
My mother always had said.
Let me hold them in my hands
and smell there fragrant scent
Then I will reminisce of different lands
Before; I am heaven sent.
I will reflect back when I was young
Or I might think back not long ago
When I walked underneath the sun
Or when I felt the wind as it blowed.
Bring me flowers when I am here
Please don't wait until I am gone
So I might reflect to a different year
And my memories will last on.
I might reflect to a different time
With every breadth and scent I breath
And knowing the flowers are mine
Shows how much that you love me.
Let me enjoy the flowers again
Let me feel them on my fingers
Because I just don't know when,
And how long my memory will linger.
Bring me flowers with a smile
Please don't bring them with any sorrow
And I will hold them just like a child
As I held you, and held on till tomorrow.
I want to see them once again
As I place them on my table
And then they will be my friend
And I will greet them when I am able.
They will be a part of me
My mothers always had said
So bring them now to me please
And don't wait until I am dead.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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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
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Thief! !
Thief! !
I don't need any flowers from you!
For, i've got enough flowers in my garden.
A walk in Sapin,
Pain, chain, train, rain, drain, grain, Cain, main, stain train;
And there you will meet a lot of people ready to offer you free flowers!
But, do watch out! ! For they are pick pockets! ! !
And, in the process of offering you these flowers, another picks your purse.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Bring Flowers
Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd;
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath!
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!
Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers!
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side-
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!
Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!
For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nurs'd.
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pale flowers!
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
They are nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Only Leaves!
Will there be fruits without flowers?
Will there be flowers without leaves?
But in my garden only leaves grow
Without flowers and fruits ever!
Selfish growth will mar healthy society!
It will be like westward rush for gold
Where everyone fights with gun to kill
One another along with joy and fun ever!
Competition sans cooperation kills joy!
Animal lust cannot sustain divine love
Making joy bloom as flowers in garden
To make joy rule life forever in bliss!
Life sans good company as desert sans oasis is
Stock piling of wealth sans none to share joy!
poem by Ramesh T A
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These Little Ones
'What of the garden I gave?'
God said to me;
'Hast thou been diligent to foster and save
The life of flower and tree?
How have the roses thriven,
The lilies I have given,
The pretty scented miracles that Spring
And Summer come to bring?
'My garden is fair and dear,'
I said to God;
'From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear.
Green-trimmed its sod.
The rose is red and bright,
The lily a live delight;
I have not lost a flower of all the flowers
That blessed my hours.'
'What of the child I gave?'
God said to me;
'The little, little one I died to save
And gave in trust to thee?
How have the flowers grown
That in its soul were sown,
The lovely living miracles of youth
And hope and joy and truth?'
'The child's face is all white,'
I said to God;
'It cries for cold and hunger in the night:
Its little feet have trod
The pavement muddy and cold.
It has no flowers to hold,
And in its soul the flowers you set are dead.'
'Thou fool!' God said.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Love at Sea
WE ARE in love’s land to-day;
Where shall we go?
Love, shall we start or stay,
Or sail or row?
There’s many a wind and way,
And never a May but May;
We are in love’s hand to-day;
Where shall we go?
Our landwind is the breath
Of sorrows kissed to death
And joys that were;
Our ballast is a rose;
Our way lies where God knows
And love knows where.
We are in love’s hand to-day—
Our seamen are fledged Loves,
Our masts are bills of doves,
Our decks fine gold;
Our ropes are dead maids’ hair,
Our stores are love-shafts fair
And manifold.
We are in love’s land to-day—
Where shall we land you, sweet?
On fields of strange men’s feet,
Or fields near home?
Or where the fire-flowers blow,
Or where the flowers of snow
Or flowers of foam?
We are in love’s hand to-day—
Land me, she says, where love
Shows but one shaft, one dove,
One heart, one hand.
—A shore like that, my dear,
Lies where no man will steer,
No maiden land.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Fair Flowers
Blossom fair flowers of my fair lady,
The prime time of love is now here to share with her;
For her precious petals are now full of love.
To unfold the truth and to kiss what she has to give to me,
But, i want to spin around the spot of love with pleasure things;
And with the blossom of fair flowers of her love.
Float like a butterfly and sting like a gnat on this muse!
For, i was born to love my fair lady in the ladn of beautiful flowers;
And, behind every great vision, there is a positive realm.
To cry at birth and to cry when you are older,
over the clouds of love and with the beauty of the rainbow around;
But this parasie of love is for my fair lady and i,
And like the black ribbon up high in the sky! !
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Oh, Ye Dead!
Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead! whom we know by the light you give
From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live,
Why leave you thus your graves,
In far off fields and waves,
Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,
To haunt this spot where all
Those eyes that wept your fall,
And the hearts that wail'd you, like your own, lie dead?
It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;
And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone;
But still thus even in death,
So sweet the living breath
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er,
That ere, condemn'd, we go
To freeze 'mid Hecla's snow,
We would taste it a while, and think we live once more!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Enter Her Garden Of Flowers
now you may enter her garden of flowers
but first you must be wise
do not think that what look like flowers are
nothing but flowers
man be wise, there are those that look like flowers
but they are something else
do not just pick them up, think twice think thrice
in her garden
there are some flowers which are bred in guilt
and if you are not so careful enough
pick another one
that one is meant for your death.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Truly Great
My walls outside must have some flowers,
My walls within must have some books;
A house that's small; a garden large,
And in it leafy nooks.
A little gold that's sure each week;
That comes not from my living kind,
But from a dead man in his grave,
Who cannot change his mind.
A lovely wife, and gentle too;
Contented that no eyes but mine
Can see her many charms, nor voice
To call her beauty fine.
Where she would in that stone cage live,
A self-made prisoner, with me;
While many a wild bird sang around,
On gate, on bush, on tree.
And she sometimes to answer them,
In her far sweeter voice than all;
Till birds, that loved to look on leaves,
Will doat on a stone wall.
With this small house, this garden large,
This little gold, this lovely mate,
With health in body, peace in heart--
Show me a man more great.
poem by William Henry Davies
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Autumn
So still—so still! Only the endless sighing
Of sad Æolian harp-notes overhead;
Only the soft mass-music for the dying;
Only the requiem for the newly dead!
So strangely dim!—the grey mist on the heather,
The chill cloud-twilight in the wind-stripped bowers,
Where gold and scarlet sunlights lay together
On harvest fruit and summer wealth of flowers.
So empty now!—only the dead leaves sifting
The dead brown berries underneath the trees;
Only my fair dead treasures idly drifting
About my footsteps in the autumn breeze.
All over now! No flowers that must be tended
Are left to grow upon the open plain;
No fruits to ripen; for the harvest's ended—
There's no more need for either sun or rain.
The infinite hope, the boundless, strong endeavour,
The love and joy I never thought to sum,
The precious things that were to last for ever—
All gather'd now, and nothing more to come!
Only the shroud of snow, the white star-tapers,
The passionate storm-winds, wailing in the air;
Only the icy rain and tearful vapours,
Only the winter darkness of despair!
* * * * *
So still, so sweet! with tender breezes blowing
Amongst the hills and o'er the Lowland sod,
And golden drifts of dead leaves softly strowing
The seed-graves hollow'd by the hands of God.
So grey and calm! the crimson glory faded
From this low sky, pale blue and purple-barred—
This placid sea, with steel and silver shaded—
This fair earth, now with autumn furrows scarred.
In the decay such chasten'd beauty blending—
Beauty late-born of peace, and hope, and rest,
As in a saintly life when near the ending,
When all its strife and labour has been blest.
The harvest-time is past. But there remaineth
The well-stored treasure-house—the hidden seed
That dead leaves help to nourish, which containeth
The germ of a new life that's life indeed.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Flower Show
Flower show
Flowers
Smile
Clour to
Clours...
Hunted for
Heart..
For flower smooth..
Flowers are
Beauty....
Some flowers
Are ugly...
I dont want
This matter...
Flowers are
Only Sumilee'S
That is flowers....
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Do Not Go To The Garden Of Flowers
Do not go to the garden of flowers!
Do not go to the garden of flowers!
O Friend! go not there;
In your body is the garden of flowers.
Take your seat on the thousand petals of the lotus,
and there gaze on the Infinite Beauty.
The Measure of Beauty
Give Beauty all her right,
She's not to one form tied;
Each shape yields fair delight,
Where her perfections bide:
Helen, I grant, might pleasing be,
And Ros'mond was as sweet as she.
Some the quick eye commends,
Some swelling lips and red;
Pale looks have many friends,
Through sacred sweetness bred:
Meadows have flowers that pleasure move,
Though roses are the flowers of love.
Free beauty is not bound
To one unmoved clime;
She visits every ground
And favours every time.
Let the old loves with mine compare,
My sovereign is as sweet as fair.
poem by Thomas Campion
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Flowers’ life
Flowers’ life is a day.
You take it away
By plucking the flowers
For offering the God
23.09.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Sonnet to -----
Ah no! my love knows no vain jealousy:
The rose that blooms and lives but in the sun,
Asks not what other flowers he shines upon,
If he but shine on her. Enough for me,
Thus in thy light to dwell, and thus to share
The sunshine of thy smile with all things fair.
I know thou'rt vowed to Beauty, not to Love.
I would not stay thy footsteps from one shrine,
Nor would I bind thee by a sigh to mine.
For me -- I have no lingering wish to rove;
For though I worship all things fair, like thee,
Of outward grace, of soul-nobility;
Happier than thou, I find them all in one,
And I would worship at thy shrine alone!
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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
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