A thousand passers-by Its beauties may espy,
May win a touch of blessing From Nature's mild caressing.
The sad of heart perceives A violet under leaves
Like sonic fresh-budding hope; The primrose on the slope
A spot of sunshine dwells, And cheerful message tells
Of kind renewing power; The nodding bluebell's dye
Is drawn from happy sky. Then spare the wayside flower!
It is the traveller's dower
Wayside Flowers by William Allingham
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one!
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!
Ah Sunflower by William Blake
I shall not be; I fain would look before
And after, but can neither do; some Power
Or lack of power says "no" to all I would.
I stand upon a wide and sunless plain,
Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright.
Whene'er, o'ercoming fear, I dare to move,
I grope without direction and by chance.
Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand
That draws them ever upward thro' the gloom.
But I--I hear no voice and touch no hand,
Tho' oft thro' silence infinite I list,
And strain my hearing to supernal sounds;
Tho' oft thro' fateful darkness do I reach,
And stretch my hand to find that other hand.
I question of th' eternal bending skies
That seem to neighbor with the novice earth;
But they roll on, and daily shut their eyes
On me, as I one day shall do on them,
And tell me not the secret that I ask.
The Mystery, by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Gaily in the sunny beam;
List'ning to the wild birds singing,
By a falling crystal stream:
Straight the sky grew black and daring;
Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave;
Tress with aged arms were warring,
O'er the swelling drumlie wave.
Such was my life's deceitful morning,
Such the pleasures I enjoyed:
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming
A' my flowery bliss destroy'd.
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me-
She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill,
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me-
I bear a heart shall support me still.
I Dream'd I Lay by Robert Burns
The green leaves among,
I heard a Wild Flower
Singing a song.
"I slept in the earth
In the silent night,
I murmured my fears
And I felt delight.
"In the morning I went
As rosy as morn,
To seek for new joy;
But oh! met with scorn."
The Wild Flower's Song, by William Blake
The sky is still and blue;
The moon was made for the sky to hold,
And I for you.
The moon is a flower without a stem,
The sky is luminous;
Eternity was made for them,
To-night for us.
To-Nigh by Sara Teasdale
A STRANGE thing surely that my Heart, when love had come unsought
Upon the Fangsfall upland or in that poplar shade,
Should find no burden but itself and yet should be worn out.
It could not bear that burden and therefore it went mad.
Owen Aherne And His Dancers by William Butler Yeats
Gaily in the sunny beam;
List'ning to the wild birds singing,
By a falling crystal stream:
Straight the sky grew black and daring;
Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave;
Tress with aged arms were warring,
O'er the swelling drumlie wave.
Such was my life's deceitful morning,
Such the pleasures I enjoyed:
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming
A' my flowery bliss destroy'd.
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me-
She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill,
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me-
I bear a heart shall support me still.
On A Dead Violet by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before
Stare vacant into mine And ask my business there.
My business,--just a life I left, Was such still dwelling there?
I fumbled at my nerve, I scanned the windows near;
The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear.
I laughed a wooden laugh That I could fear a door,
Who danger and the dead had faced, But never quaked before.
I fitted to the latch My hand, with trembling care,
Lest back the awful door should spring, And leave me standing there.
I moved my fingers off As cautiously as glass,
And held my ears, and like a thief Fled gasping from the house.
I years had been from home, by Emily Dickinson
On the leaf-sown, new-mown, smooth
Grass plot of the garden;
Escaped from bitter youth,
Escaped out of her crowd,
Or out of her black cloud.
i{Ah, dancer, ah, sweet dancer.!}
If strange men come from the house
To lead her away, do not say
That she is happy being crazy;
Lead them gently astray;
Let her finish her dance,
Let her finish her dance.
i{Ah, dancer, ah, sweet dancer.!}
Sweet Dancer by William Butler Yeats
She sat without the grated den,
Watching how my fate would tend,
Even as selfish-hearted men.
She was cruel in her fear;
Through the bars, one dreary day,
I looked out to see her there,
And she turned her face away!
Like a false guard, false watch keeping,
Still, in strife, she whispered peace;
She would sing while I was weeping;
If I listened, she would cease.
False she was, and unrelenting;
When my last joys strewed the ground,
Even Sorrow saw, repenting,
Those sad relics scattered round;
Hope, whose whisper would have given
Balm to all my frenzied pain,
Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
Went, and ne'er returned again!
Hope by Emily Jane Bront�
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold.
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long-forgotten snow.
Let It Be Forgotten Sara Teasdale
While yonder beeches from their barks Reflect his silver rays.
That sun surveys a lovely scene From softly smiling skies;
And wildly through unnumbered trees The wind of winter sighs:
Now loud, it thunders o'er my head, And now in distance dies.
But give me back my barren hills Where colder breezes rise;
Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees Can yield an answering swell,
But where a wilderness of heath Returns the sound as well.
For yonder garden, fair and wide, With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks, and borders trim, And velvet lawns between;
Restore to me that little spot, With grey walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies, And weeds usurp the ground.
Though all around this mansion high Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within -- Oh, give me back my HOME!
Home by Anne Bront�
It was ghostly waking All night through.
Dear things, kind things, That my old love said,
Ranged themselves reproachfully Round my bed.
But I could not heed them, For I seemed to see
The eyes of my new love Fixed on me.
Old love, old love, How can I be true?
Shall I be faithless to myself Or to you?
In secret kept, in silence sealed;�
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.
But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back�a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !
And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress�
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come.
by Charlotte Bront�
My hand to thine;
My lips to thy lips,
Kisses are wine
Brewed for the lover in sunshine and shade;
Let me drink deep, then, my man of the Glade.
Lily to lily,
Rose unto rose;
My love to thy love
Tenderly grows.
Rend not the oak and the ivy in twain,
Nor the swart maid from her swarthier swain.
by Paul Lawrence Dunbar
Blind to the beauty of the earth,
Deaf though shouting wind goes by,
Dumb in a storm of mirth;
Until my heart is quenched at length
And I have left the land of men,
Oh, let me love with all my strength
Careless if I am loved again.
Sara Teasdale
As one shuts an open door,
That Love may starve therein
And trouble me no more."
But over the roofs there came
The wet new wind of May,
And a tune blew up from the curb
Where the street-pianos play.
My room was white with the sun
And Love cried out in me,
"I am strong, I will break your heart
Unless you set me free."
Sara Teasdale
And since the body's maidenhood Alone were neither rare nor good Unless with it I gave to you
A spirit still untrammeled, too, Take my dreams and take my mind That were masterless as wind;
And "Master!" I shall say to you Since you never asked me to.