Flowers and Gardens

O Rose, thou art sick!

Ah, Sun-flower! weary of time,

To see a world in a grain of sand

God Almighty first planted a garden; and, indeed, it is the purest of human pleasures.

Nothing is more pleasant to the eye than green grass kept finely shorn.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells, and cockleshells, And pretty maids all in a row.

The time cracks into furious flower. Lifts its face all unashamed. And sways in wicked grace.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair— Lean on a garden urn— Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days! Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways.

The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la, Have nothing to do with the case.

Perfumes, colors and sounds echo one another

It was roses, roses all the way.

In May, when sea winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods.

Who loves a garden still his Eden keeps, Perennial pleasures plants, and wholesome harvests reaps.

Child, you are like a flower, So sweet and pure and fair. I look at you, and sadness Touches me with a prayer.

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet.

You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 1

’Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone.

Flowers are lovely; love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree.

Small service is true service while it lasts: Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one: The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.

The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r, Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow’r, Thou bonie gem.