SUMMER.
Ah! Bring childhood's flower!
The half-blown daisy bring.
Flowers for the Heart. J. ELLIOTT.
There is a flower, a little flower
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
A Field Flower. J. MONTGOMERY.
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.
To the Daisy. W. WORDSWORTH.
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour
Have passed away; less happy than the one
That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove
The tender charm of poetry and love.
_Poems composed in the Summer of_1833. W. WORDSWORTH.
With little here to do or see
Of things that in the great world be,
Sweet daisy! oft I talk to thee.
For thou art worthy,
Thou unassuming commonplace
Of nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace
Which love makes for thee!
To the Daisy. W. WORDSWORTH.
Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight;
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.
I Stood Tiptoe Upon a Little Hill. J. KEATS.
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower.
Home Thoughts from Abroad. R. BROWNING.
The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold,
Held up their chalices of gold
To catch the sunshine and the dew.
Centennial Poem. J.C.R. DORR.
We bring roses, beautiful fresh roses,
Dewy as the morning and colored like the dawn;
Little tents of odor, where the bee reposes,
Swooning in sweetness of the bed he dreams upon.
The New Pastoral, Bk. VII. T.B. READ.
The amorous odors of the moveless air,—
Jasmine and tuberose and gillyflower,
Carnation, heliotrope, and purpling shower
Of Persian roses.
The Picture of St. John, Bk. II. B. TAYLOR.
Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose,
With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed.
King Henry VI., Pt. II. Act i. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
Here eglantine embalmed the air,
Hawthorne and hazel mingled there;
The primrose pale, and violet flower,
Found in each cliff a narrow bower;
Foxglove and nightshade, side by side,
Emblems of punishment and pride,
Grouped their dark hues with every stain
The weather-beaten crags retain.
The Lady of the Lake, Canto I. SIR W. SCOTT.
Wild-rose, Sweetbriar, Eglantine,
All these pretty names are mine,
And scent in every leaf is mine,
And a leaf for all is mine,
And the scent—Oh, that's divine!
Happy-sweet and pungent fine,
Pure as dew, and picked as wine.
Songs and Chorus of the Flowers. L. HUNT.
Roses red and violets blew
And all the sweetest flowres that in the forrest grew.
Faërie Queene, Bk. III. Canto VI. E. SPENSER.
Oh! roses and lilies are fair to see;
But the wild bluebell is the flower for me.
The Bluebell. L.A. MEREDITH.
And the stately lilies stand
Fair in the silvery light,
Like saintly vestals, pale in prayer;
Their pure breath sanctifies the air,
As its fragrance fills the night.
A Red Rose. J.C.R. DORR.
And the Naiad-like lily of the vale,
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale,
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen,
Through their pavilions of tender green.
The Sensitive Plant. P.B. SHELLEY.
A pure, cool lily, bending
Near the rose all flushed and warm.
Guonare. E.L. SPROAT.
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you,
love, remember:—and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
Hamlet, Act iv. Sc. 5. SHAKESPEARE.
Of all the bonny buds that blow
In bright or cloudy weather,
Of all the flowers that come and go
The whole twelve moons together,
The little purple pansy brings
Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.
Heart's Ease. M.E. BRADLEY.
I send thee pansies while the year is young,
Yellow as sunshine, purple as the night:
Flowers of remembrance, ever fondly sung
By all the chiefest of the Sons of Light;
* * * * *
Take all the sweetness of a gift unsought,
And for the pansies send me back a thought.
Pansies. S. DOWDNEY.
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine.
Midsummer Night's Dream, Act ii. Sc. 1.. SHAKESPEARE.
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.
Retirement. T. WARTON.