Flowers

"Counting flowers on the wall, that don't bother me at all..." Lew Dewitt

Flowers, by Albert Laighton

They are autographs of angels, penned

In Nature's green-leaved book, in blended tints,

Borrowed from rainbows and the sunset skies,

And written everywhere--on plain and hill,

In lonely dells, 'mid crowded haunts of men;

On the broad prairies, where no eye save God's

May read their silent, sacred mysteries.

Thank God for flowers!

they gladden human hearts;

Seraphic breathings part their fragrant lips

With whisperings of Heaven.

Flowers, by Wendy Cope

Some men never think of it.

You did. You’d come along

And say you’d nearly brought me flowers

But something had gone wrong.

The shop was closed. Or you had doubts —

The sort that minds like ours

Dream up incessantly. You thought

I might not want your flowers.

It made me smile and hug you then.

Now I can only smile.

But, look, the flowers you nearly brought

Have lasted all this while.

The Flower that Smiles To-Day, by Percy Shelley

The flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay

Tempts and then flies.

What is this world’s delight?

Lightning that mocks the night,

Brief even as bright.

Flowers, by Cynthia Zarin

This morning I was walking upstairs

from the kitchen, carrying your

beautiful flowers, the flowers you

brought me last night, calla lilies

and something else, I am not

sure what to call them, white flowers,

of course you had no way of knowing

it has been years since I bought

white flowers—but now you have

and here they are again. I was carrying

your flowers and a coffee cup

and a soft yellow handbag and a book

of poems by a Chinese poet, in

which I had just read the words “come

or go but don’t just stand there

in the doorway,” as usual I was

carrying too many things, you

would have laughed if you saw me.

It seemed especially important

not to spill the coffee as I usually

do, as I turned up the stairs,

inside the whorl of the house as if

I were walking up inside the lilies.

I do not know how to hold all

the beauty and sorrow of my life.

The Lent Lily, by A. E. Housman

And there’s the windflower chilly

With all the winds at play,

And there’s the Lenten lily

That has not long to stay

And dies on Easter day.

And since till girls go maying

You find the primrose still,

And find the windflower playing

With every wind at will,

But not the daffodil…

I wandered lonely as a cloud, by William Wordsworth

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 but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed – and gazed – but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought…

A Wreath, by George Herbert

A wreathèd garland of deservèd praise,

Of praise deservèd, unto Thee I give,

I give to Thee, who knowest all my ways,

My crooked winding ways, wherein I live,—

Wherein I die, not live ; for life is straight,

Straight as a line, and ever tends to Thee,

To Thee, who art more far above deceit,

Than deceit seems above simplicity…

Flowers by the Sea, by William Carlos Williams

When over the flowery, sharp pasture’s

edge, unseen, the salt ocean

lifts its form—chicory and daisies

tied, released, seem hardly flowers alone

but color and the movement—or the shape

perhaps—of restlessness, whereas

the sea is circled and sways

peacefully upon its plantlike stem

Tall Nettles, by Edward Thomas

This corner of the farmyard I like most:

As well as any bloom upon a flower

I like the dust on the nettles, never lost

Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.

In Flanders Fields, by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Perennials, by Maggie Smith

Let us praise the ghost gardens

of Gary, Detroit, Toledo—abandoned

lots where perennials wake

in competent dirt and frame the absence

of a house. You can hear

the sound of wind, which isn’t

wind at all, but leaves touching.

Wind itself can’t speak. It needs another

to chime against, knock around.

Again and again the wind finds its tongue,

but its tongue lives outside

of its rusted mouth. Forget the wind.

Let us instead praise meadow and ruin,

weeds and wildflowers seeding

years later. Let us praise the girl

who lives in what they call

a transitional neighborhood—

another way of saying not dead?

Or risen from it? Before running

full speed through the sprinkler’s arc,

she tells her mother, who kneels

in the garden: Pretend I’m racing

someone else. Pretend I’m winning.

Ah Sunflower, by William Blake

Ah Sunflower, weary of time,

Who countest the steps of the sun;

Seeking after that sweet golden clime

Where the traveller's journey is done;

Where the Youth pined away with desire,

And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,

Arise from their graves, and aspire

Where my Sunflower wishes to go!

Sunflowers, by Lottie Brown Allen

Up from the wayside damp and cold

Cut of the early Kansas mold

Blossomed the sunflowers, green and gold,

Eastward turning at dawn’s first light

Hourly drinking the sunbeams bright

Westward waving a fond goodnight.

Kissed by the sunshine and the dew

Under the Kansas skies of blue

Like unto sunflowers, the children grew.

Bright eyes greeting the sun’s first ray

Small hands eager for work or play

Young hearts singing the livelong day.

Kansas sunflowers happy and free

Men and women that grew to be

Builders of Kansas destiny.

Where the Wildflowers Grow,
by Glam Forest

I’ll confess that you can find me

where the wildflowers grow;

In a place where only lifelong pairs

and lovers dare to go.

Wildflower,
by Gaby Compres

your heart finds

life in color

and boldness

and who you are,

wildflower,

makes you beautiful.

My Dear, Love Hasn’t Forgotten You,
by Carolyn Riker

I’m going to give you a handful of wildflowers

so, each petal that falls will remind you

that the earth breathes, and the moon rises.

Fall, Leaves, Fall

by Emily Brontë

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;

Lengthen night and shorten day;

Every leaf speaks bliss to me

Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow

Blossom where the rose should grow;

I shall sing when night’s decay

Ushers in a drearier day.

The most beautiful flower of them all!

More flowers springing up soon!

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