To a Nurse
As dropping moisture on December flowers,
As sunlight breaking o'er the August plain,
As shines the Virgin on the midnight hours,
So is thy presence at the bed of pain;
5And as the flowers revive to bloom more fair,
And o'er the plain the wattles burst in fire,
And midnight hours to morn at last repair,
So hope and life thy minist'rings inspire;
9And though for me there's but the life and hope
That lie abundant past the gates of Death,
Yet thither as with feeble steps I grope
Thy friendly arm assists my failing breath;
Nor will I deem of Providence the worse
Who sent me pain to send me thee for nurse.
poem by William Gay
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Related quotes
Cut Flowers
If you love me - please never bring me cut flowers
Because I know that they will die soon after a few hours
I would feel that whatever the flowers represent
Would be equal to the time we have left to spend
Straight stems, soft petals and a lush green leaf
The hours and minutes are numbered - you better believe
Picking a flower is like a sure sentence to death
Like taking a fish out of water watching his last breath
Cut down their life brutally shortened with a sharp knife
All hope diminished knowing that they will not survive
Sure the flowers may get nourishment from the water in the vase
But their life is over as they know it in just a few days
So do not buy any cut flowers for me pretty please
I rather watch them outside visited by many bees
It is so beautiful to see them sway softly outside
And so sad to see them slowly die and lose their pride
© 2011
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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~time~
As the hours drag on
the doctors rush to save her life
as the hours drag on
the day ends with no hope left
as the hours drag on
a nurse in forms a young girls family full of distress
as the minutes pass by
a young girl slowly dies
as the minutes pass by
a dieing girl whispers her last good byes
as the seconds tick past
she breaths her last breath
as seconds tick past
a family is struck with the truth that life does not last forever
months past in a blur
years will only dull the pain for the family
eternity till they will meet again
poem by Kairy sauerwein
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Hooray for May (Sontoum)
December is always so very lame
Compared to May, when flowers bloom again,
Then I just sit and look for one to blame -
The poison Ivy, or bee’s precious pain.
Compared to May, when flowers bloom again
July is sad - abundant, then, they fade:
The poison Ivy or bee’s precious pain
Will soon depart like summertime parade.
July is sad - abundant, then, they fade:
Beach outings, birds and my courageous finds
Will soon depart like summertime parade
As Mother Nature pulls her winter blinds.
December is always so very lame
Then I just sit and look for one to blame.
Copyright © 2010 Leslie Alexis
poem by Leslie Alexis
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Letter To My Unknown Lover
Wherever you are
You will know what it's like
When two people are one.
Those memories in the sun
We lean upon
But still fall
When it's all gone.
Whoever you are
We'll find each other
In a coffee shop
Or at a lonely bus stop.
To nowhere.
Then
Our phone calls
Will last two hours
Or more.
Never wanting to say goodnight.
Before that fatal bite.
-Don't forget to write.
Whatever you are
A teacher or a nurse.
A writer
Or even much worse.
Some songs
Will still become ours.
On Valentine's
I'll send you flowers.
To say sorry
Unaware of my sin.
And you'll forgive me
And let me in.
Then we will begin
The circle again.
Magic leaking
Stairways creaking
To our heaven
In pain.
And we fade
Like a bell
Out at sea.
Until then,
I hope you and me
Will cherish each second
Dearly.
When we meet
I will be
Yours sincerely.
Kisses sweet
My unknown lover.
poem by Kevin East
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The Beautiful Camellias
The camellias bloom in Winter when the skies are cold and gray
When the sun shines at it's weakest and the Spring seems far away
Each tree an individual by the shade of flowers they bear
An avenue of camellias of one shade of flowers more often than not rare.
In shades of pink and creams and reds the colours one might name
Each is an individual for no two look the same
The beautiful camellias resplendent in their flowers
They bloom in lawn and garden on Winter's coldest hours.
In late fall in Victoria in the Southern Hemisphere
The flower buds on camellia tell Winter days are near
And before the wattles come to bloom towards the end of July
The flowers on the camellia tree lose their petals and die.
The beautiful camellias bloom in the cold winter showers
And long before the southern spring they will have lost their flowers
And on June's coldest and wettest day great beauty I can see
A mass of pink flowers blooming on the green camellia tree.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Within The Midnight Hour
In the midnight hours, my heart
breaks, the fog moves in, wraps
it arms around the morning's
longing wake. The gentle dew
falls from the nights moon, within
the loving fog, my heart
blooms.
The midnight stars fading one
by one, falling from the darkness,
until the night is done. Stars
floating within my sea of tears,
midnight awaiting for my
love to appear.
Gripping the cool night, feeling
alone, lost in the misty fog,
my heart looking for a home.
Crying to the Heaven's, my
universe in pain, moon beams
playing melodies upon my
broken heart strings.
In the midnight hour, your
sweet name I call, the galaxy
crying, losing light as it's stars
fall. Alone in the midnight hour,
my heart, the pain consumes,
within the loving fog, my heart
does bloom.
poem by Ruth warren
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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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What Hope Is
What Hope Is
Hope is...the beam of light that shines in the darkness
Hope is...the the diamond buried in the rock
Hope is...the fire burning in the snow
Hope is...the seeds among the lava fields
Hope is...the life among all death
Hope is...the egg laid upon the nest
Hope is...the DNA in our blood
Hope is...the sprouts among the charred ash of it's father
Hope is...the love amidst all the world's hate
Hope is...the heart beating in our bodies
Hope is...the things that we look towards to guide us through our life
poem by Michael Carlson
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part I: To Manon: XIII
HE DARES NOT DIE
Four hours by the clock! How strange it is! Four hours
Since love and life, the future and the past,
Died with the shutting of these silent doors,
And thought became to me one purpose vast.
I have not moved from where she sat. The cast
Of her fingers on this cushion lightly scores
Its surface still; and still I hear the last
Tones of her laughter, and here lie her flowers.
Poor flowers! The ugliness of grief has wrought
Your change already. No besotted bloom
Of a false dawn has lured you to base life.
You at the pinch were brave and trifled not,
Going ungrudging to our common doom.
And I? Ah God! I have not faced the knife!
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Magic Ring
Your touch on my hand is fire,
Your lips on my lips are flowers.
My darling, my one desire,
Dear crown of my days and hours.
Dear crown of each hour and day
Since ever my life began.
Ah! leave me--ah! go away -
We two are woman and man.
To lie in your arms and see
The stars melt into the sun;
Till there is no you and me,
Since you and I are one.
To loose my soul to your breath,
To bare my heart to your life -
It is death, it is death, it is death!
I am not your wife.
The hours will come and will go,
But never again such an hour
When the tides immortal flow
And life is a flood, a flower . . .
Wait for the ring; it is strong,
It has a magic of might
To make all that was splendid and wrong
Sordid and right.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Joke of Fate
if ever, i jump in the furnished of fire, laughter
may burst my sympathy, and my anger may leads
me to annihilation, leaving my cool head to float,
that end is not a surrender
as the refreshing morning sun focus my breath
and wound my flesh the vessel of stamina,
powered my delighted spirit to wait the spring for
an autumn brings sprouted grass may grows
laughter echo my pain, letting the plain of blooming
flowers flame the dawning meadows of a faded hope
to survive, waving, until the end last may come and
say till then i return
on the road the heart stand, the spirited glows and
come as it may go, for the faded glory never loose
the grip that make believe the haiku of life as it turn
to blue
off the fume, the suffocation has twist to supplication
and as it paved the wit of time to remember, the
hymn has come to sing the wonderful song of life ……
poem by Antonio Liao
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Song for a German Air
Fair stream of the mountain, brightly flowing
Between thy fresh margins, gay with flowers,
Life's uncertain visions showing;
Thus, like thy waters glide past the hours.
Oft on thy sunny banks I lie
And mark the waves that glitter by
With fleeting joy and brightness glowing.
Fair stream! when no more near thee reclining,
I gaze and lament for moments gone—
Cold and silent, past repining—
Still thy clear way thou wilt murmur on:
Still will thy roses bloom anew,
Though I no more their beauty view,
And yonder sun as bright be shining!
poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
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The Great May
Who said the Spring was dead?
She would not come again,
Dust on her starry head,
For a sad world in pain?
The thing they have said in vain,
She comes new garlanded:
Lovely on hill and plain
Her lights, her flowers are shed.
Never was such a May!
Mercy of God, to prove
Life springs from the clay
And every treasured love
Walks in a heavenly grove.
The Lord God's holiday
To the soft coo of the dove
With the young lambs at play.
Lo! yours, and yours, are there,
I see them leap and run
In a May-world past compare
Whereof our God is sun.
They rejoice, yea, every one
In the ambient light and air,
Their pleasures are not done
From morn till evening star.
Never was such a Spring!
Oh, you whose eyes are wet,
Listen, take comforting,
Our God does not forget.
Poor folk that fear and fret
Your hours are on the wing
To the loves that wait you yet,
Raised up and triumphing.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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SonnetXLVII. To G.W.C.
STILL shines our August day, as calm, as bright
As when, long years ago, we sailied away
Down the blue Narrows and the widening bay
Into the wrinkling ocean's flashing light;
And the whole universe of sound and sight
Repeats the radiance of that festal day.
But for the inward eye no power can stay
The fleeting splendor of our youth's delight.
Still shines our August day, — but not for me
The old enchantment, — when, by care and sorrow
Untried, the hopeful heart was ever free
To greet the morn as herald of like morrow.
Yet shine, fair day! And let my soul from thee
Hope, faith, and strength for life's dim future borrow.
poem by Christopher Pearse Cranch
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Song. Hope
And said I that all hope was fled,
That sorrow and despair were mine,
That each enthusiast wish was dead,
Had sank beneath pale Misery’s shrine.--
Seest thou the sunbeam's yellow glow,
That robes with liquid streams of light;
Yon distant Mountain's craggy brow.
And shows the rocks so fair,--so bright--
Tis thus sweet expectation’s ray,
In softer view shows distant hours,
And portrays each succeeding day,
As dressed in fairer, brighter flowers,--
The vermeil tinted flowers that blossom;
Are frozen but to bud anew,
Then sweet deceiver calm my bosom,
Although thy visions be not true,--
Yet true they are,—and I’ll believe,
Thy whisperings soft of love and peace,
God never made thee to deceive,
'Tis sin that bade thy empire cease.
Yet though despair my life should gloom,
Though horror should around me close,
With those I love, beyond the tomb,
Hope shows a balm for all my woes.
AUGUST, 1810.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Midnight In The Park
Real life may not be a whirlwind romance.
Real life may not be running off to a hidden cabin.
Real life may not be a Cinderella fairy tail.
For me real life may not be for very long at all.
For me a kiss in the moonlight is truly magical.
I can live an entire lifetime of romance in one evening.
For a few brief hours I can be content in real life.
For a few brief hours, real life is holding hands
at midnight walking in a park.
Then we part ways again, but we had midnight in the park.
poem by Atsiylah Atty Garfinkel
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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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The Daily Act of Presence
Eight hours at work, commuting sometimes two,
the daily act of presence is assigned
its p[l]ace, weak celebration paid in kind,
traced race to waste bereft, much left to do.
Eight hours abed, at table almost two,
the daily act of presence, daily grind,
few dare opt out of as life's clocks unwind, -
such haste to conquer Time, whose ride’s askew.
Three hours of leisure, then, without ado,
day's drive departs, leaves most deprived of breath.
Who'd buck luck's trend bends in the end to Death
whose lock mocks motto 'to thyself be true! '
Three hours for chat, sex, net or television,
no wonder Man’s case-study for derision.
16 May 2001 revised 18 December 2008
robi03_0936_robi03_0000 SXX_EJZ
for previous version see below
The Daily Act of Presence
Eight hours at work, in travel up to two,
the daily act of presence is assigned
and celebrated weakly, paid in kind, -
so much to waste, so little left to do.
Eight hours abed, at table almost two,
the daily act of presence, daily grind,
few dare opt out as life's clocks unwind, -
such haste to conquer Time, whose ride’s askew.
Three hours leisure, then, without ado,
the day departs, leaves most deprived of breath.
Who'd buck the trend bends in the end to Death -
what sense retains 'unto thyself be true'?
Three hours for music, films or television –
no wonder Man’s case-study for derision!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Too soon so fair, fair lilies
TOO soon so fair, fair lilies;
To bloom is then to wane;
The folded bud has still
To-morrow at its will;
Blown flowers can never blow again.
Too soon so bright, bright noontide;
The sun that now is high
Will henceforth only sink
Towards the western brink;
Day that's at prime begins to die.
Too soon so rich, ripe summer,
For autumn tracks thee fast;
Lo, death-marks on the leaf!
Sweet summer, and my grief;
For summer come is summer past.
Too soon, too soon, lost summer;
Some hours and thou art o'er.
Ah! death is part of birth:
Summer leaves not the earth,
But last year's summer lives no more.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Hope
Without hope the human race would simply not exist.
There would be no pain, no fate, no destiny or death.
For hope is a part of life itself, it defines the human race.
Without it doom would engulf our very existance.
Pain, sorrow and despair only serve to breed new hope.
Even as man's destructive war machine rages there is hope.
Hope for a life bereft of hunger, hatred and prejudice.
Or even a hope to die a swift and painless death.
All of mans dreams are born upon the wings of hope...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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