Find just the right flower poem in our collection of poetry about flowers.
Short poems to remind us that flowers add beauty to our surroundings.
Beauty can be found in all corners of the world, but few things are as breathtaking and awe-inspiring as flowers. Whether cultivated in our gardens or growing wild, flowers add a vibrancy to our surroundings that remind us of the magnificence of nature.
A Very Wild Flower
Poem written by Mildred Howells
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."
You may also find inspiration to share with gardeners in our collection of
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?
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 whenever you send me flowers
I'll know that someone out there cares through all these lonely hours.
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,
Who made the flowers? "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 flowers 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."
Stately hollyhocks, row on row,
Golden sunflowers all aglow,
Scarlet poppies, and larkspurs blue,
Asters of every shade and hue;
And over the wall, hike a trail of fire,
The red nasturtium climbs high and higher.
My lady's-slippers are fair to see,
And her pinks are as sweet as sweet can be,
With gillyflowers and mourning-brides,
And many another flower besides.
Give me the old Dutch honeysuckle
A-makin' even the night-time sweet,
A-blossomin' at every knuckle,
And hangin' to your very feet.
And pink and buff and white carnations,
And rosebuds snuggled up in moss,
Heart's-ease and violets, dear relations,
And gay snapdragons, bright and cross.
Give me the good old week-day blossoms
I used to see so long ago,
With hearty sweetness in their bosoms,
Ready and glad to bud an' blow.
More poems about flowers by the
famous poet, John Imrie
Poet: Ina D. Coolbrith
I think I would not be
A stately tree,
Broad-boughed, with haughty crest that seeks the sky!
Too many sorrows lie
In years, too much of bitter for the sweet!
Frost-bite, and blast, and heat,
Blind drought, cold rains, must all grow wearisome,
Ere one could put away
Their leafy garb for aye,
And let death come.
Rather this wayside flower!
To live its happy hour
Of balmy air, of sunshine, and of dew.
A sinless face held upward to the blue;
A bird-song sung to it,
A butterfly to flit
On dazzling wings above it, hither, thither -
A sweet surprise of life - and then exhale
A little fragrant soul on the soft gale.
To float - ah, whither!
Flower and Thorn
Poet: Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Take them and keep them,
Silvery thorn and flower,
Plucked just at random
In the rosy weather
Snowdrops and pansies,
Sprigs of wayside heather.
And five-leaved wild-rose
Dead within an hour.
Take them and keep them;
Who can tell? Some day, dear,
(Though they be withered,
Flower and thorn and blossom,)
Held for an instant
Up against thy bosom,
They might make December
Seem to thee like May, dear!