Tulips. According to Patch, pink tulips are a good flower choice for relationships when that aren’t quite at the passionate love stage yet. But Life123.com reports that a red tulip is a “declaration of love” and white ones signify “beautiful eyes.” Given these meanings, giving tulips for a loved one is never a bad idea, either.
Tag Archives: plants
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i’ the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas’d with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
But winter and rough weather.
The Month of April
“The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
a cloud come over the sunlit arch,
And wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.”
– Robert Frost, Two Tramps in Mud Time, 1926
“And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast
rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.”
– Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Sensitive Plant
“Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly–and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.”
– Omar Khayyám
“The first of April is the day we remember what we are the other 364 days of the year.”
– Mark Twain
Note: This webpage is now updated and maintained at a new location.
“Spring would not be spring without bird songs.”
– Francis M. Chapman
“That God once loved a garden we learn in Holy writ.
And seeing gardens in the Spring I well can credit it.”
– Winifred Mary Letts
“O Day after day we can’t help growing older.
Year after year spring can’t help seeming younger.
Come let’s enjoy our winecup today,
Nor pity the flowers fallen.”
– Wang Wei, On Parting with Spring
“The April rain, the April rain,
Comes slanting down in fitful showers,
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
And in grey shawl and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again.”
– Mathilde Blind, April Rain
“Keep your faith in all beautiful things; in the sun when it is hidden, in the Spring when it is gone.”
– Roy R. Gilson
“Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles,
Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath,
Through all the moaning chimneys, and ‘thwart all the hollows and angles
Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death.
But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow
Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibers that lift
Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow,
Deep in the oak’s chill core, under the gathering drift.
Nay, to earth’s life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire
(How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes–
Rapture of life ineffable, perfect–as if in the brier,
Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.”
– William Dean Howell, Earliest Spring
“When the time is ripe for certain things,
these things appear in different places in the manner
of violets coming to light in the early spring.”
– Farkas Bolyai
“April’s rare capricious loveliness.”
– Julia Dorr
“You start in April and cross to the time of May
One has you as it leaves, one as it comes
Since the edges of these months are yours and defer
To you, either of them suits your praises.
The Circus continues and the theatre’s lauded palm,
Let this song, too, join the Circus spectacle.”
– Ovid, Fasti (V.185-190, CE)
“Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sellp-song on our roof at night–
And I love the rain.”
– Langston Hughes, 1902-1967, April Rain Song
“Sweet April showers
Do spring May flowers.”
– Thomas Tusser, A Hundred Good Points of Husbandry, 1557
“Every spring is the only spring – a perpetual astonishment.”
– Ellis Peters
“I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers:
Of April, May, or June, and July flowers.
I sing of Maypoles, Hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of the bridal cakes.”
– Robert Herrick, Hesperides, 1648
“Now that the winter’s gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;
But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,
And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo and the humble-bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world the youthful spring.”
– Thomas Carew, The Spring, 1630
“This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.”
– D. H. Lawrence, The Enkindled Spring
“When the April wind wakes the call for the soil, I hold the plough as my only hold upon the earth, and, as I follow through the fresh and fragrant furrow, I am planted with every foot-step, growing, budding, blooming into a spirit of spring.”
– Dallas Lore Sharp, 1870-1929
“If Spring came but once in a century, instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake, and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change! But now the silent succession suggests nothing but necessity. To most men only the cessation of the miracle would be miraculous and the perpetual exercise of God’s power seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be.”
– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!”
– Wallace Stevens
“Hark, I hear a robin calling!
List, the wind is from the south!
And the orchard-bloom is falling
Sweet as kisses on the mouth.
In the dreamy vale of beeches
Fair and faint is woven mist,
And the river’s orient reaches
Are the palest amethyst.
Every limpid brook is singing
Of the lure of April days;
Every piney glen is ringing
With the maddest roundelays.
Come and let us seek together
Springtime lore of daffodils,
Giving to the golden weather
Greeting on the sun-warm hills.”
– Lucy Maud Montgomery, Spring Song
Himself outgrows his flowers.
He grows by gift of patience,
Since he who sows must know
That only in the Lord’s good time
Does any seedling grow.
He learns from buds unfolding,
From each tight leaf unfurled,
That his own heart, expanding,
Is one with all the world.
He bares his head to sunshine,
His bending back a sign
Of grace, and ev’ry shower becomes
His sacramental wine.
And when at last his labors
Bring forth the very stuff
And substance of all beauty
This is reward enough.
-MARIE NETTLETON CARROLL
Please send your poetry to:firstname.lastname@example.org
A shriek from the realms of the heart
echoes within the veins
Swiping aside the sweet melody
breathing the saddened symphony….
Bruises unseen felt when touched
respire through the open wounds
The salve to soothen the lesion
Has vanished in the gloom…
Words of comfort ne’er
Calm the ache,
as a sojourn
can ne’er blossom flowers
on a dying barren state…
There’s a grassy slope not far away
Where thousands of Narcissus bloom,
And I catch my breath, as I watch them sway
Tossing their sweet perfume.
Gaily they nod their dear little heads
And smilingly welcome me,
As they spring up fresh from their winter beds,
Eager for company.
Their round white faces fair and clean
Are purer than frost or snow,
And I thank the hands, tho’ now unseen;
That planted them, long ago.
-NORA MC FARLANE
“The flower that walks”, the Indian; said,
And walking spreads its crown-like roots
Through forest glades and upland dales.
Moccasin flower or Lady’s Slipper,
It matters not the name
Or if it be fair white or rose or tiny yellow kind
Tis ever rare and wondrous there
This woodland beauty Bequeathed us from another age.
A Heritage to guard with care
And cherish for posterity
That other eyes in future years
Mav see this Orchid walk the trails
As did our native Indian braves
And shy eyed maidens of the tribe.
-HELEN M. FLEET
Thoughts rush through my mind
As I stare intently at the rose
Such quiet beauty contained
With thorns waiting so close.
Clipping the bud to hold it
Careful of the delicate shape
Knowing that once picked
It’s life begins to escape.
Slowly I peel back petals
Their scent fills my nose
Laying them out flat to dry
A smile starts and grows.
I place an array of color
Arranged on your pillow
Hopeful when I find you
My love will also show.
Hello little robin
wearing your scarlet red vest
how dainty yet proud you are
seeking food for your nest
the feeders are flowing
fresh seed to the brim
so go call the others to come delve in
Now perched on the bird bath looking fully fed
surveying surroundings for your next daily bread
please please visit again little bird for you
bring comfort I feel safe
with thoughts of someone so loved and missed can’t come
sends you to me in his place
By Sandra Cameron
which is always there with me
There is absolutely no gain
In pretending what others want you to be
May be the pain will fizzle out
but I will miss its presence
Among all these self doubts
Constant pain is my life’s essence
Gaurab Country : India
About : I like travelling and photography. I’m an avid reader, I also write,mostly about my experiences and journeys. 🙂
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking,
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
BY JOHN MASEFIELD
Enjoyment and feasting,
Building the Bhelaghar,
Pranks with the neighbour.
The morning after,
Obeisance to the God of fire,
Burning the tall Meji,
Made of bamboo and paddy.
Sunga pitha, kaath aloo,
Customary delights of Magh Bihu,
With friends and families,
Flavours of Assamese delicacies.
Geetima Baruah Sarma
Short note: Bhogali Bihu is a harvest festival of Assam, a state of north-east India. The festival is celebrated in mid-January, marking the end of the harvest season. Bhogali means feasting and enjoyment. It is also known as Magh Bihu as celebrations are held in the month of Magh, the tenth month of the Assamese calendar. On the eve known as Uruka, people gather for a community feast with friends and families. A variety of dishes that include meat and fish are cooked over wood flame. Using bamboo and paddy, a temporary hut called Bhelaghar and a tall structure known as Meji are built. Merriment continues throughout the night as youths play pranks like stealing vegetables from the neighbour’s garden. Next morning, offerings are made to the God of fire and people enjoy the traditional delicacies like sunga pitha, kaath aloo etc.
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green, Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes, Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes. I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration, Faces of people streaming across my gaze. And I, what fountain of fire am I among This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed About like a shadow buffeted in the throng Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.
SENT IN BY YOU WHAT'S YOURS
We have lost a precious flower
We both planted many years ago
We both worked very hard to protect it
We were very happy to see it grow
When it was tiny and very weak
We both protected it day after day
We watched our flower develop
Until Mother Nature took it away
It broke our hearts into pieces
We both thought it would last
But alas it was impossible
For the dye had already been cast
We both thought we would raise our flower
Until our precious flower fell ill
It was next morning we found it
Upon the ground the flower lay still
Although we had lost our precious flower
The flower seeds were left behind
Now all the seedlings we shall cherish
For our flower will always be on our mind