Oh, to be in
England
Robert Browning (1812-1889)
Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England - now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows
Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops - at the bent spray's edge
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And
though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower, -
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
Endymion:
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp. Or what's
a heaven for?
A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune!
As fair art thou, my bonnie
lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my
dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
Geoffrey
Chaucer (1343-1400):
That though the radiance which was once so bright be now
forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back
the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We
will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind
The flower that smells the
sweetest is shy and lowly.
To me the meanest flower that
blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears
And she was fair as is the rose
in May.
Emily Dickinson
#32 Circa 1858
When Roses cease to bloom,
Sir,
And Violets are done -
When Bumblebees in solemn flight
Have passed beyond the Sun -
The hand that paused to gather
Upon this Summer's day
Will Idle lie - in Auburn -
Then take my flowers - pray!
#81 Circa 1859
We should not mind so small a
flower -
Except it quiet bring
Our little garden that we lost
Back to the Lawn again.
So spicy her Carnations nod -
So drunken, reel her Bees -
So Silver steal a hundred flutes
From out a hundred trees -
That whoso sees this little
flower
By faith may clear behold
The Bobolinks around the throne
And Dandelions gold.
#1456 Circa 1879
So gay a Flower
Bereaves the Mind
As if it were a Woe -
Is Beauty an Affliction - then?
Tradition ought to know -
To Daffodils
by Robert Herrick.
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.
John Keats (1795-1821):
Andrea del Sarto:
A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness
increases; it will never pass into nothingness.
Ode
to A Grecian Urn:
Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'
- that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Red
Poppy
by Carolyn Kreiter-Foronda from Gathering Light
Still-in a way-nobody sees a
flower-really-it is so small-we haven't time-and to see
takes time, like to have a friend takes time.
Georgia O'Keefe
To see the flower,
to really see it
takes time: knowing
what to praise
and for how long. Suppose
the poppy's a scarlet
ibis afloat on a bed
of leaves, cardinals
in flight, a tanager calling
its mate. The artist
enlivened this flower
so you could know it.
Yet here you stand
befuddled by a poppy:
recognizable, small
delicate as a robin.
Relax. Try not to stare
so hard. It knows
you're here admiring
its birdlike petals.
Opalescent, the red
poppy shines from within
dark, oval center
clipped from a swath
of velvet cloth.
You can feel the wings
sway: five of them
on a huge scale
gathering sun.
Not one of us
can ignore their
willful beauty.
Rebecca
Lilly:
Haiku – a form of Japanese poetry: three lines with
five, seven and five syllables, respectively
Autumn dusk
grows cool…
Humps of great oak roots shadow
The path through the woods
Fields upon
fields, clear
Yellow in the cool; some geese
Rise; the moon is full
Cedars scenting
from
Woods hollows; boulders hold moon-
Glow; this time alone
The Garden
by Andrew Marvell
No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green.
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure
Less,
Withdraws into its happiness;
Annihilating all that’s made
To a green Thought in a green shade -
The Roses
by Mary Oliver
One day in
summer
when everything
has already been more than enough
the wild beds start
exploding open along the berm
of the sea; day after day
you sit fear them; day after day
the honey keeps on coming
in the red cups and the bees
like amber drops roll
in the petals: there is no end,
believe me! to the inventions of summer,
to the happiness your body
is willing to bear.
May
May, and
among the miles of leafing,
blossoms storm out of the darkness -
windflowers and moccasin flowers. The bees
dive into them and I too, to gather
their spiritual honey. Mute and meek, yet theirs
is the deepest certainty that this existence too -
this sense of well-being, the flourishing
of the physical body - rides
near the hub of the miracle that everything
is a part of, is as good
as a poem or a prayer, can also make
luminous any dark place on earth.
Autumn
by Carol L. Riser
When the trees their summer
splendor
Change to raiment red and gold,
When the summer moon turns yellow,
And the nights are getting cold;
When the squirrels hide their acorns,
And the woodchucks disappear;
Then we know that it is Autumn,
Loveliest season of the year.
William Shakespeare:
"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin."
The Daffodils
by William Wordsworth
I wandered
lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze
Continuous
as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never - ending line
Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance
The waves
beside them danced; but they
Out - did the sparkling waves in glee.
A poet could not be but gay.
In such a jocund company;
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought
For often
when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
How
does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely
little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom
bold.
Yaitsu's:
death poem, 1807
Paradise -
I see flowers
from the cottage where I lie.