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Where flowers bloom so does hope.- Lady Bird Johnson
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Where flowers degenerate man cannot live.
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Where shall we make her grave? Oh! where the wild flowers wave In the free air! When shower and singing-bird ‘Midst the young leaves are heard, There – lay her there!
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Who that has loved knows not the tender tale Which flowers reveal, when lips are coy to tell?
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Why does the rose her grateful fragrance yield, And yellow cowslips paint the smiling field?
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With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I’ll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Outsweet’ned not thy breath.
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With fragrant breath the lilies woo me now, and softly speaks the sweet-voiced mignonette.
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With roses musky-breathed, And drooping daffodilly, And silver-leaved lily. And ivy darkly-wreathed I wove a crown before her, For her I love so dearly.
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Ye bright Mosaics! That with storied beauty, The floor of Nature’s temple tesselate, What numerous emblems of instructive duty Your forms create!
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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.
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Ye living flowers, that skirt the eternal frost!
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Ye pretty daughters of the earth and sun.
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Yellow japanned buttercups and star-disked dandelions,–just as we see them lying in the grass, like sparks that have leaped from the kindling sun of summer.
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Yet here’s eglantine, Here’s ivy!–take them as I used to do Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, And tell thy soul their roots are left in mine.
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Yet, no–not words, for they But half can tell love’s feeling; Sweet flowers alone can say What passion fears revealing: A once bright rose’s wither’d leaf, A tow’ring lily broken,– Oh, these may paint a grief No words could e’er have spoken.
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You can’t see as well as these fucking flowers – and they’re fucking plastic. [to a line judge, 1980 US Open]
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You like buttercups, dewy sweet, And crocuses, framed in snow; I like roses, born of the heat, And the red carnation’s glow.
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers–each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book.
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