Find just the right flower poem in our collection of poetry about flowers.
Flowers add beauty to our surroundings, both flowers that we grow in our
gardens and wildflowers that bloom each year.
Short Poems / Garden Poems
/ Flower Poem - related: Flower Quotes
More Garden Poems
A Very Wild Flower
Poem written by Mildred Howells, 1896
Within a garden once there grew
A flower that seemed the very pattern
Of all propriety; none knew
She was at heart a wandering slattern.
The gardener old, with care and pain,
Had trained her up as she should grow,
Nor dreamed amid his labor vain
That rank rebellion lurked below.
A name sufficiently high-sounding
He diligently sought for her,
Until he thought that "Rebounding
Elizabeth" he should prefer.
But when grown up the flower began
To show the tastes within her hidden;
At every chance quite wild she ran,
In spite of being sternly chidden.
They told her beds for flowers were best;
But daily greater grew her failings;
Up to the fence she boldly pressed,
And stuck her head between the palings.
Then to the street she struggled through,
Tearing to rags her silken attire,
And all along the road she grew,
Regardless quite of dust and mire.
You'll find her now by country ways,
A tattered tramp, though comely yet,
With rosy cheek and saucy gaze,
And known to all as "Bouncing Bet."
The Language of Flowers
Poet: Charles Fenno Hoffman
Teach thee their language! sweet, I know no tongue.
No mystic art those gentle things declare,
I ne'er could trace the schoolman's trick among
Created things, so delicate and rare:
Their language? Prythee! why they are themselves
But bright thoughts syllabled to shape and hue,
The tongue that erst was spoken by the elves.
When tenderness as yet within the world was new.
And oh, do not their soft and starry eyes —
Now bent to earth, to heaven now meekly pleading—
Their incense fainting as it seeks the skies,
Yet still from earth with freshening hope receding —
Say, do not these to every heart declare.
With all the silent eloquence of truth.
The language that they speak is Nature's prayer.
To give her back those spotless days of youth?
Poem by Thomas Hood
I will not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly queen,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun; -
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of everyone.
The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand
The wolfsbane I should dread; -
Nor will I dreary rosemary
That always mourns the dead; -
But I will woo the dainty rose,
With her cheeks of tender red.
The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me -
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with blush,
She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom's betrothed to the bee; -
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.
The Red Flower
Poet: Henry VanDyke
In the pleasant time of Pentecost,
By the little river Kyll,
I followed the angler's winding path
Or waded the stream at will,
And the friendly fertile German land
Lay round me green and still.
But all day long on the eastern bank
Of the river cool and clear,
Where the curving track of the double rails
Was hardly seen though near,
The endless trains of German troops
Went rolling down to Trier.
They packed the windows with bullet heads
And caps of hodden gray;
They laughed and sang and shouted loud
When the trains were brought to a stay;
They waved their hands and sang again
As they went on their iron way.
No shadow fell on the smiling land,
No cloud arose in the sky;
I could hear the river's quiet tune
When the trains had rattled by;
But my heart sank low with a heavy sense
Of trouble,- I knew not why.
Then came I into a certain field
Where the devil's paint-brush spread
'Mid the gray and green of the rolling hills
A flaring splotch of red,-
An evil omen, a bloody sign,
And a token of many dead.
I saw in a vision the field-gray horde
Break forth at the devil's hour,
And trample the earth into crimson mud
In the rage of the Will to Power,-
All this I dreamed in the valley of Kyll,
At the sign of the blood-red flower.
Give Me Flowers
Greta Zwaan, © 2010
Give me roses while I'm here so I can enjoy them,
Don't leave them till I'm in my grave where time will soon destroy them.
Let me see their beauty now, let their fragrance fill me;
Let their beauty light my day and let their glory thrill me.
But better still I'll be inspired because you have remembered,
I need uplifting at this time, my heart feels so encumbered.
This thought of love you've sent my way, your kind consideration,
Does more to lift my grief and pain than any celebration.
To feel your tenderness to me, my futile days are lightened;
Although I walk in dark despair, your love my hope has brightened.
To know that someone else is there who's touched by my condition,
It gives me hope to struggle on, reviewing my position.
Truly, life is hard enough, encourage me with flowers,
But better still, do pray for me through all these lonely hours.
I know God's not forsaken me but often I am lonely,
I long to have companionship, it's what I crave for only.
Oh, healing would be wonderful! My heart would thrill within me,
However, I'm not at that stage, my life is mostly waning.
But you can brighten up my day when e're you send me flowers
I'll know that someone out there cares through all these lonely hours.
The Sunken Garden
Poet: Walter De La Mare
Speak not--whisper not;
Here bloweth thyme and bergamot;
Softly on the evening hour,
Secret herbs their spices shower,
Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh,
Lean-stalked, purple lavender;
Hides within her bosom, too,
All her sorrows, bitter rue.
Breathe not--trespass not;
Of this green and darkling spot,
Latticed from the moon’s beams,
Perchance a distant dreamer dreams;
Perchance upon its darkening air,
The unseen ghosts of children fare,
Faintly swinging, sway and sweep,
Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep;
While, unmoved, to watch and ward,
’Mid its gloom’d and daisied sward,
Stands with bowed and dewy head
That one little leaden Lad.
Poet: Eloise A. Skimings
Hope amid despair, sweet flowers,
Blossoming in winter bowers,
Purest white, and yellow too.
Fresh as if the morning dew
Had come down from Heaven on you,
In gold and crimson, too, ye bloom,
Fit to bedeck a monarch's room,
Clustering in profusion wild,
Type of innocence, in winter mild,
Which by thy presence is beguil'd,
Whence Came The Flowers?
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
Who made the flow'rs? "I," said the sun,
"Through many long hours, I made each one."
"'Twas I," said the rain, " 'twas my cooling breath
Refreshed them again and saved them from death."
"The flow'rs cam with me," cried the wind with delight;
"There was no one to see in the depth of the night.
I bore them to the earth on the spread of my wings.
"Twas I gave them birth, the bright, darling things."
" 'Twas I," said the soil. Cried the gardner, "No!
Through my care and toil, the blossoms now show!"
Then the stars still and calm and pale, stately moon
Sang a heavenly psalm to a long-ago tune.
"Who made thee flowers? Not the sun, rain or sod.
Nor man's vital powers - but the quiet thought of God."
Poet: Althea Randolph
Gloria with her Flower-friends,
In the garden plays;
Happy little comrades, they.
Through the summer days!
Pansies, Roses, Mignonette,
Lilies, white and tall,
Violets and Heliotrope, -
Gloria loves them all!
In their flower-language sweet
Secrets do they tell, —
And Gloria seems to understand
What they say, quite well!
Poet: Poet: Ethel Lynn Beers
Where are the sweet, old-fashioned posies,
Quaint in form and bright in hue,
Such as grandma gave her lovers
When she walked the garden through?
Lavender, with spikes of azure
Pointing to the dome on high.
Telling thus whence came its color,
Thanking with its breath the sky.
Four-o'clock, with heart upfolding,
When the loving sun had gone,
Streak and stain of cunning crimson,
Like the light of early dawn.
Regal lilies, many-petalled.
Like the curling drifts of snow.
With their crown of golden anthers
Poised on malachite below.
Morning-glories, tents of purple
Stretched on bars of creamy white,
Folding up their satin curtains
Inward through the dewy night.
Marigold, with coat of velvet
Streaked with gold and yellow lace,
With its love for summer sunlight
Written on its honest face.
Dainty pink, with feathered petals
Tinted, curled, and deeply frayed,
With its calyx heart, half broken,
On its leaves uplifted laid.
Can't you see them in the garden,
Where dear grandma takes her nap?
See cherry blooms shake softly over
Silver hair and snowy cap?
Will the modern florist's triumph
Look so fair, or smell so sweet,
As those dear old-fashioned posies
Blooming round our grandma's feet?
The Water Lily
Poet: Mrs. Hemans
Oh! beautiful thou art,
Thou sculpture-like and stately River-Queen!
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene
Of a pure heart.
Bright lily of the wave!
Rising in fearless grace with every swell,
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave
Dwelt in thy cell:
Lifting alike thy head
Of placid beauty, feminine yet free.
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread
The waters be.
What is like thee, fair flower,
The gentle and the firm? thus bearing up
To the blue sky that alabaster cup.
As to the shower?
Oh! Love is most like thee,
The love of woman; quivering to the blast
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast,
'Midst Life's dark sea.
And Faith — O, is not faith
Like thee too, Lily, springing into light.
Still buoyantly above the billows' might.
Through the storm's breath?
Yes, link'd with such high thought.
Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie!
Till something there of its own purity
And peace be wrought:
Something yet more divine
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed,
As from a shrine.
Poet: Lucy Larcom
Disk of bronze and ray of gold
Glimmering through the meadow grasses,
Burn less proudly! for behold,
Down the field my princess passes.
Hardly should I hold you fair —
Golden, gay, midsummer daisies,
But for her, the maiden rare.
Who, amid your starry mazes.
Makes you splendid with her praises.
Soft brown tresses, eyes of blue,
Is a heart beneath you waking?
Maiden here's a heart for you,
Fain were worthier of your taking.
Golden daisies, you have met
In a fairy ring around her —
Does she hear my footfall yet.
Wher, enchanted, you have bound her?
Hold her charmed, till we have crowned her!
Softly, blossoms, while she stands
In the sunny stillness dreaming, —
Softly hither, to my hands —
Wreathe for her a circlet gleaming!
Lights her face a shy, swift smile;
Flower-like head she slowly raises:
Was her heart mine all the while?
Blossoms, royal with her praises,
Crown my queen, ye golden daisies!
Poet: W. B. Allen
A dandelion in a meadow grew,
Among the waving grass and cowslips yellow;
Dining on sunshine, breakfasting on dew,
He was a right contented little fellow.
Each morn his golden head he lifted straight,
To catch the first sweet breath of coming day;
Each evening closed his sleepy eyes, to wait
Until the long, cool night had passed away.
One afternoon, in sad, unquiet mood,
I paused beside this tiny, bright-faced flower,
And begged that he would tell me, if he could.
The secret of his joy through sun and shower.
It seemed, he looked up brightly as he said:
"I know the sun is somewhere, shining clear.
And when I can not see him overhead,
I try to be a little sun, right here!
Related Short Poems & Quotes You May Like:
Poems About Leaves
Poems About Rain
Poems About The Season
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