The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the first from the clear cold heaven, as falls the
plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland glade and
glen.
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Flowers are Love's truest language; they betray,
Like the divining rods of Magi old,
Where precious wealth read more
Flowers are Love's truest language; they betray,
Like the divining rods of Magi old,
Where precious wealth lies buried, not of gold,
But love--strong love, that never can decay!
Thick on the woodland floor
Gay company shall be,
Primrose and Hyacinth
And frail read more
Thick on the woodland floor
Gay company shall be,
Primrose and Hyacinth
And frail Anemone,
Perennial Strawberry-bloom,
Woodsorrel's pencilled veil,
Dishevel'd Willow-weed
And Orchis purple and pale.
A root is a flower that disdains fame.
A root is a flower that disdains fame.
Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you 'tis true:
Yet wildings of nature, I dote upon you,
read more
Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you 'tis true:
Yet wildings of nature, I dote upon you,
For ye waft me to summers of old,
When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight,
And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,
Like treasures of silver and gold.
A kiss without a hug is like a flower without the fragrance.
A kiss without a hug is like a flower without the fragrance.
A wedding is just like a funeral except that you get to smell your own flowers.
A wedding is just like a funeral except that you get to smell your own flowers.
I have loved flowers that fade,
Within those magic tents
Rich hues have marriage made
read more
I have loved flowers that fade,
Within those magic tents
Rich hues have marriage made
With sweet unmemoried scents.
The berries of the brier rose
Have lost their rounded pride:
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums
read more
The berries of the brier rose
Have lost their rounded pride:
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums
Are drooping heavy-eyed.
Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see!
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
read more
Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see!
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
In scented bowers!
Ye roses on your thorny tree
The first o' flow'rs.
