Poetry

Cyclamen

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Cyclamen
Cyclamen

The Cyclamen by Arlo Bates

Over the plains where Persian hosts

Laid down their lives for glory

Flutter the cyclamens, like ghosts

That witness to their story.

Oh, fair! Oh, white! Oh, pure as snow!

On countless graves how sweet they grow!

 

Or crimson, like the cruel wounds

From which the life-blood, flowing,

Poured out where now on grassy mounds

The low, soft winds are blowing:

Oh, fair! Oh, red! Like blood of slain;

Not even time can cleanse that stain.

 

But when my dear these blossoms holds,

All loveliness her dower,

All woe and joy the past enfolds

In her find fullest flower.

Oh, fair! Oh, pure! Oh, white and red!

If she but live, what are the dead!

 

Queen Anne’s Lace

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Daucus carota
Daucus carota

Queen Anne’s Lace

Queen Anne, Queen Anne,

She sat in the sun,

Making of lace till the day was done.

She made it green, she made it white,

She made it of flowers and sunshine and light,

She fastened it on a stalk so fine,

She left it in the hedgerow to shine.

Queen Anne’s lace, Queen Anne’s lace,

You find it growing all over the place.

 

 

From ‘Little Grey Rabbit Makes Lace’ – Alison Uttley

Jack Frost

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Frosty Papaver orientale

Jack Frost was in the garden

I saw him there at dawn

A’ dancing round the bushes

And prancing on the lawn.

He wore a cloak of silver,

A hat all shimmering white,

A wand of glittering star-dust,

And shoes of moonbeam light.

 

He shook his silver dust

Upon the tallest trees

He painted pretty pictures

On every pane you see.

He turned the grass and bushes

From green to sparkling white

And all the garden’s puddles

From mud to fairy ice.

 

Based upon the poem by John P. Smeeton

Here There Be Dragons

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Primula bulleyana or Candelabra Primula
Primula bulleyana or Candelabra Primula

 

 

HERE THERE BE DRAGONS! – Author Unknown

The map tells sailors where to sail 


The decorations sun and whale, 


The warning spelled in letters pale 


HERE THERE BE DRAGONS!

But north-northwest there is a gap 


Should cause the sailors no mishap, 


But north-northwest there is a gap. 


AND HERE THERE BE DRAGONS!

 

 

 

The continents are not drawn true, 


The ocean waves outlined in blue, 


Sea serpentine provides the clue


WHERE THERE BE DRAGONS.

 

 

 

Yet year by year the ships have passed 


Through oceans wide and oceans vast,


And sailors stared atop the mast 


FOR WHERE THERE BE DRAGONS.

 

 

No scales of blue and jaws of green 


Are by these modern sailors seen 


Do you think that this might mean


HERE THERE BE NO MORE DRAGONS?

 

 

 

I’d like to hope,

I’d like to pray


The dragons have just gone away


And will return some other day

THEN HERE THERE WILL BE DRAGONS, AGAIN.

 

 

 

 

 

Glowing Galanthus

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Galanthus nivalis
Galanthus nivalis

          The Snowdrop – Lord Alfred Tennyson

          Many, many welcomes,

          
February fair-maid!

          Ever as of old time,

          Solitary firstling,

          
Coming in the cold time,

          Prophet of the gay time,


          Prophet of the May time,

          Prophet of the roses,
Many,

          Many welcomes,

          February fair-maid!

 

A Rose for Lent

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Lenten Rose
Lenten Rose

 

The Canturbury Tales

Excerpt from Prologue of the The Clerks Tale

For goddes sake, as beth of bettre cheere!

It is no tyme for to studien heere.

Telle us som myrie tale, by youre fey!

For what man that is entred in a pley,

He nedes moot unto the pley assente.

But precheth nat, as freres doon in Lente,

To make us for oure olde synnes wepe,

Ne that thy tale make us nat to slepe.

 

 

Translation

For God’s sake, smile and be of better cheer,

It is no time to think and study here.

Tell us some merry story, if you may;

For whatsoever man will join in play,

He needs must to the play give his consent.

But do not preach, as friars do in Lent,

To make us, for our old sins, wail and weep,

And see your tale shall put us not to sleep.

Life’s a Beech – Fagus sylvatica

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Fagus sylvatica

The Beech Tree’s Petition

O leave this barren spot to me!

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Though bush or floweret never grow

My dark unwarming shade below;

Nor summer bud perfume the dew

Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;

Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,

My green and glossy leaves adorn;

Nor murmuring tribes from me derive

Th’ ambrosial amber of the hive;

Yet leave this barren spot to me:

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

 

Thrice twenty summers I have seen

The sky grow bright, the forest green;

And many a wintry wind have stood

In bloomless, fruitless solitude,

Since childhood in my pleasant bower

First spent its sweet and sportive hour;

Since youthful lovers in my shade

Their vows of truth and rapture made,

And on my trunk’s surviving frame

Carved many a long-forgotten name.

Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,

First breathed upon this sacred ground;

By all that Love has whispered here,

Or Beauty heard with ravished ear;

As Love’s own altar honor me:

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

 

Thomas Campbell