10 Best Famous Lily Of The Valley Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Lily Of The Valley poems. This is a select list of the best famous Lily Of The Valley poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Lily Of The Valley poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of lily of the valley poems.

• All Famous Lily Of The Valley Poems

Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | from Asphodel That Greeny Flower Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem- save that it's green and wooden- I come, my sweet, to sing to you. We lived long together a life filled, if you will, with flowers. So that I was cheered when I came first to know that there were flowers also in hell. Today I'm filled with the fading memory of those flowers that we both loved, even to this poor colorless thing- I saw it when I was a child- little prized among the living but the dead see, asking among themselves: What do I remember that was shaped as this thing is shaped? while our eyes fill with tears. Of love, abiding love it will be telling though too weak a wash of crimson colors it to make it wholly credible. There is something something urgent I have to say to you and you alone but it must wait while I drink in the joy of your approach, perhaps for the last time. And so with fear in my heart I drag it out and keep on talking for I dare not stop. Listen while I talk on against time. It will not be for long. I have forgot and yet I see clearly enough something central to the sky which ranges round it. An odor springs from it! A sweetest odor! Honeysuckle! And now there comes the buzzing of a bee! and a whole flood of sister memories! Only give me time, time to recall them before I shall speak out. Give me time, time. When I was a boy I kept a book to which, from time to time, I added pressed flowers until, after a time, I had a good collection. The asphodel, forebodingly, among them. I bring you, reawakened, a memory of those flowers. They were sweet when I pressed them and retained something of their sweetness a long time. It is a curious odor, a moral odor, that brings me near to you. The color was the first to go. There had come to me a challenge, your dear self, mortal as I was, the lily's throat to the hummingbird! Endless wealth, I thought, held out its arms to me. A thousand tropics in an apple blossom. The generous earth itself gave us lief. The whole world became my garden! But the sea which no one tends is also a garden when the sun strikes it and the waves are wakened. I have seen it and so have you when it puts all flowers to shame. Too, there are the starfish stiffened by the sun and other sea wrack and weeds. We knew that along with the rest of it for we were born by the sea, knew its rose hedges to the very water's brink. There the pink mallow grows and in their season strawberries and there, later, we went to gather the wild plum. I cannot say that I have gone to hell for your love but often found myself there in your pursuit. I do not like it and wanted to be in heaven. Hear me out. Do not turn away. I have learned much in my life from books and out of them about love. Death is not the end of it. There is a hierarchy which can be attained, I think, in its service. Its guerdon is a fairy flower; a cat of twenty lives. If no one came to try it the world would be the loser. It has been for you and me as one who watches a storm come in over the water. We have stood from year to year before the spectacle of our lives with joined hands. The storm unfolds. Lightning plays about the edges of the clouds. The sky to the north is placid, blue in the afterglow as the storm piles up. It is a flower that will soon reach the apex of its bloom. We danced, in our minds, and read a book together. You remember? It was a serious book. And so books entered our lives. The sea! The sea! Always when I think of the sea there comes to mind the Iliad and Helen's public fault that bred it. Were it not for that there would have been no poem but the world if we had remembered, those crimson petals spilled among the stones, would have called it simply murder. The sexual orchid that bloomed then sending so many disinterested men to their graves has left its memory to a race of fools or heroes if silence is a virtue. The sea alone with its multiplicity holds any hope. The storm has proven abortive but we remain after the thoughts it roused to re-cement our lives. It is the mind the mind that must be cured short of death's intervention, and the will becomes again a garden. The poem is complex and the place made in our lives for the poem. Silence can be complex too, but you do not get far with silence. Begin again. It is like Homer's catalogue of ships: it fills up the time. I speak in figures, well enough, the dresses you wear are figures also, we could not meet otherwise. When I speak of flowers it is to recall that at one time we were young. All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts. My sweet, you have it also, therefore I love you and could not love you otherwise. Imagine you saw a field made up of women all silver-white. What should you do but love them? The storm bursts or fades! it is not the end of the world. Love is something else, or so I thought it, a garden which expands, though I knew you as a woman and never thought otherwise, until the whole sea has been taken up and all its gardens. It was the love of love, the love that swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of nature, of people, of animals, a love engendering gentleness and goodness that moved me and that I saw in you. I should have known, though I did not, that the lily-of-the-valley is a flower makes many ill who whiff it. We had our children, rivals in the general onslaught. I put them aside though I cared for them. as well as any man could care for his children according to my lights. You understand I had to meet you after the event and have still to meet you. Love to which you too shall bow along with me- a flower a weakest flower shall be our trust and not because we are too feeble to do otherwise but because at the height of my power I risked what I had to do, therefore to prove that we love each other while my very bones sweated that I could not cry to you in the act. Of asphodel, that greeny flower, I come, my sweet, to sing to you! My heart rouses thinking to bring you news of something that concerns you and concerns many men. Look at what passes for the new. You will not find it there but in despised poems. It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there. Hear me out for I too am concerned and every man who wants to die at peace in his bed besides.

Written by Ezra Pound | Alba As cool as the pale wet leaves of lily-of-the-valley She lay beside me in the dawn.

Written by Elizabeth Bishop | First Death In Nova Scotia In the cold, cold parlor my mother laid out Arthur beneath the chromographs: Edward, Prince of Wales, with Princess Alexandra, and King George with Queen Mary. Below them on the table stood a stuffed loon shot and stuffed by Uncle Arthur, Arthur's father. Since Uncle Arthur fired a bullet into him, he hadn't said a word. He kept his own counsel on his white, frozen lake, the marble-topped table. His breast was deep and white, cold and caressable; his eyes were red glass, much to be desired. "Come," said my mother, "Come and say good-bye to your little cousin Arthur." I was lifted up and given one lily of the valley to put in Arthur's hand. Arthur's coffin was a little frosted cake, and the red-eyed loon eyed it from his white, frozen lake. Arthur was very small. He was all white, like a doll that hadn't been painted yet. Jack Frost had started to paint him the way he always painted the Maple Leaf (Forever). He had just begun on his hair, a few red strokes, and then Jack Frost had dropped the brush and left him white, forever. The gracious royal couples were warm in red and ermine; their feet were well wrapped up in the ladies' ermine trains. They invited Arthur to be the smallest page at court. But how could Arthur go, clutching his tiny lily, with his eyes shut up so tight and the roads deep in snow?

Written by Vachel Lindsay | The Tree of Laughing Bells [A Poem for Aviators] How the Wings Were Made From many morning-glories That in an hour will fade, From many pansy buds Gathered in the shade, From lily of the valley And dandelion buds, From fiery poppy-buds Are the Wings of the Morning made. The Indian Girl Who Made Them These, the Wings of the Morning, An Indian Maiden wove, Intertwining subtilely Wands from a willow grove Beside the Sangamon — Rude stream of Dreamland Town. She bound them to my shoulders With fingers golden-brown. The wings were part of me; The willow-wands were hot. Pulses from my heart Healed each bruise and spot Of the morning-glory buds, Beginning to unfold Beneath her burning song of suns untold. The Indian Girl Tells the Hero Where to Go to Get the Laughing Bell "To the farthest star of all, Go, make a moment's raid. To the west — escape the earth Before your pennons fade! West! west! o'ertake the night That flees the morning sun. There's a path between the stars — A black and silent one. O tremble when you near The smallest star that sings: Only the farthest star Is cool for willow wings. "There's a sky within the west — There's a sky beyond the skies Where only one star shines — The Star of Laughing Bells — In Chaos-land it lies; Cold as morning-dew, A gray and tiny boat Moored on Chaos-shore, Where nothing else can float But the Wings of the Morning strong And the lilt of laughing song From many a ruddy throat: "For the Tree of Laughing Bells Grew from a bleeding seed Planted mid enchantment Played on a harp and reed: Darkness was the harp — Chaos-wind the reed; The fruit of the tree is a bell, blood-red — The seed was the heart of a fairy, dead. Part of the bells of the Laughing Tree Fell to-day at a blast from the reed. Bring a fallen bell to me. Go!" the maiden said. "For the bell will quench our memory, Our hope, Our borrowed sorrow; We will have no thirst for yesterday, No thought for to-morrow." The Journey Starts Swiftly A thousand times ten thousand times More swift than the sun's swift light Were the Morning Wings in their flight On — On — West of the Universe, Thro' the West To Chaos-night. He Nears the Goal How the red bells rang As I neared the Chaos-shore! As I flew across to the end of the West The young bells rang and rang Above the Chaos roar, And the Wings of the Morning Beat in tune And bore me like a bird along — And the nearing star turned to a moon — Gray moon, with a brow of red — Gray moon with a golden song. Like a diver after pearls I plunged to that stifling floor. It was wide as a giant's wheat-field An icy, wind-washed shore. O laughing, proud, but trembling star! O wind that wounded sore! He Climbs the Hill Where the Tree Grows On — Thro' the gleaming gray I ran to the storm and clang — To the red, red hill where the great tree swayed — And scattered bells like autumn leaves. How the red bells rang! My breath within my breast Was held like a diver's breath — The leaves were tangled locks of gray — The boughs of the tree were white and gray, Shaped like scythes of Death. The boughs of the tree would sweep and sway — Sway like scythes of Death. But it was beautiful! I knew that all was well. A thousand bells from a thousand boughs Each moment bloomed and fell. On the hill of the wind-swept tree There were no bells asleep; They sang beneath my trailing wings Like rivers sweet and steep. Deep rock-clefts before my feet Mighty chimes did keep And little choirs did keep. He Receives the Bells Honeyed, small and fair, Like flowers, in flowery lands — Like little maidens' hands — Two bells fell in my hair, Two bells caressed my hair. I pressed them to my purple lips In the strangling Chaos-air. He Starts on the Return Journey On desperate wings and strong, Two bells within my breast, I breathed again, I breathed again — West of the Universe — West of the skies of the West. Into the black toward home, And never a star in sight, By Faith that is blind I took my way With my two bosomed blossoms gay Till a speck in the East was the Milky way: Till starlit was the night. And the bells had quenched all memory — All hope — All borrowed sorrow: I had no thirst for yesterday, No thought for to-morrow. Like hearts within my breast The bells would throb to me And drown the siren stars That sang enticingly; My heart became a bell — Three bells were in my breast, Three hearts to comfort me. We reached the daytime happily — We reached the earth with glee. In an hour, in an hour it was done! The wings in their morning flight Were a thousand times ten thousand times More swift than beams of light. He Gives What He Won to the Indian Girl I panted in the grassy wood; I kissed the Indian Maid As she took my wings from me: With all the grace I could I gave two throbbing bells to her From the foot of the Laughing Tree. And one she pressed to her golden breast And one, gave back to me. From Lilies of the valley — See them fade. From poppy-blooms all frayed, From dandelions gray with care, From pansy-faces, worn and torn, From morning-glories — See them fade — From all things fragile, faint and fair Are the Wings of the Morning made!

Written by William Blake | The Book of Thel THEL'S MOTTO 1 Does the Eagle know what is in the pit? 2 Or wilt thou go ask the Mole? 3 Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod? 4 Or Love in a golden bowl? I 1.1 The daughters of the Seraphim led round their sunny flocks, 1.2 All but the youngest: she in paleness sought the secret air, 1.3 To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day: 1.4 Down by the river of Adona her soft voice is heard, 1.5 And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew: 1.6 "O life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water, 1.7 Why fade these children of the spring, born but to smile and fall? 1.8 Ah! Thel is like a wat'ry bow, and like a parting cloud; 1.9 Like a reflection in a glass; like shadows in the water; 1.10 Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infant's face; 1.11 Like the dove's voice; like transient day; like music in the air. 1.12 Ah! gentle may I lay me down, and gentle rest my head, 1.13 And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gentle hear the voice 1.14 Of him that walketh in the garden in the evening time." 1.15 The Lily of the valley, breathing in the humble grass, 1.16 Answer'd the lovely maid and said: "I am a wat'ry weed, 1.17 And I am very small and love to dwell in lowly vales; 1.18 So weak, the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head. 1.19 Yet I am visited from heaven, and he that smiles on all 1.20 Walks in the valley and each morn over me spreads his hand, 1.21 Saying, 'Rejoice, thou humble grass, thou new-born lily-flower, 1.22 Thou gentle maid of silent valleys and of modest brooks; 1.23 For thou shalt be clothed in light, and fed with morning manna, 1.24 Till summer's heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springs 1.25 To flourish in eternal vales.' Then why should Thel complain? 1.26 Why should the mistress of the vales of Har utter a sigh?" 1.27 She ceas'd and smil'd in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine. 1.28 Thel answer'd: "O thou little virgin of the peaceful valley, 1.29 Giving to those that cannot crave, the voiceless, the o'ertired; 1.30 Thy breath doth nourish the innocent lamb, he smells thy milky garments, 1.31 He crops thy flowers while thou sittest smiling in his face, 1.32 Wiping his mild and meekin mouth from all contagious taints. 1.33 Thy wine doth purify the golden honey; thy perfume, 1.34 Which thou dost scatter on every little blade of grass that springs, 1.35 Revives the milked cow, and tames the fire-breathing steed. 1.36 But Thel is like a faint cloud kindled at the rising sun: 1.37 I vanish from my pearly throne, and who shall find my place?" 1.38 "Queen of the vales," the Lily answer'd, "ask the tender cloud, 1.39 And it shall tell thee why it glitters in the morning sky, 1.40 And why it scatters its bright beauty thro' the humid air. 1.41 Descend, O little Cloud, and hover before the eyes of Thel." 1.42 The Cloud descended, and the Lily bow'd her modest head 1.43 And went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass. II 2.1 "O little Cloud," the virgin said, "I charge thee tell to me 2.2 Why thou complainest not when in one hour thou fade away: 2.3 Then we shall seek thee, but not find. Ah! Thel is like to thee: 2.4 I pass away: yet I complain, and no one hears my voice." 2.5 The Cloud then shew'd his golden head and his bright form emerg'd, 2.6 Hovering and glittering on the air before the face of Thel. 2.7 "O virgin, know'st thou not our steeds drink of the golden springs 2.8 Where Luvah doth renew his horses? Look'st thou on my youth, 2.9 And fearest thou, because I vanish and am seen no more, 2.10 Nothing remains? O maid, I tell thee, when I pass away 2.11 It is to tenfold life, to love, to peace and raptures holy: 2.12 Unseen descending, weigh my light wings upon balmy flowers, 2.13 And court the fair-eyed dew to take me to her shining tent: 2.14 The weeping virgin trembling kneels before the risen sun, 2.15 Till we arise link'd in a golden band and never part, 2.16 But walk united, bearing food to all our tender flowers." 2.17 "Dost thou, O little Cloud? I fear that I am not like thee, 2.18 For I walk thro' the vales of Har, and smell the sweetest flowers, 2.19 But I feed not the little flowers; I hear the warbling birds, 2.20 But I feed not the warbling birds; they fly and seek their food: 2.21 But Thel delights in these no more, because I fade away; 2.22 And all shall say, 'Without a use this shining woman liv'd, 2.23 Or did she only live to be at death the food of worms?' " 2.24 The Cloud reclin'd upon his airy throne and answer'd thus: 2.25 "Then if thou art the food of worms, O virgin of the skies, 2.26 How great thy use, how great thy blessing! Every thing that lives 2.27 Lives not alone nor for itself. Fear not, and I will call 2.28 The weak worm from its lowly bed, and thou shalt hear its voice, 2.29 Come forth, worm of the silent valley, to thy pensive queen." 2.30 The helpless worm arose, and sat upon the Lily's leaf, 2.31 And the bright Cloud sail'd on, to find his partner in the vale. III 3.1 Then Thel astonish'd view'd the Worm upon its dewy bed. 3.2 "Art thou a Worm? Image of weakness, art thou but a Worm? 3.3 I see thee like an infant wrapped in the Lily's leaf 3.4 Ah! weep not, little voice, thou canst not speak, but thou canst weep. 3.5 Is this a Worm? I see thee lay helpless and naked, weeping, 3.6 And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mother's smiles." 3.7 The Clod of Clay heard the Worm's voice and rais'd her pitying head: 3.8 She bow'd over the weeping infant, and her life exhal'd 3.9 In milky fondness: then on Thel she fix'd her humble eyes. 3.10 "O beauty of the vales of Har! we live not for ourselves. 3.11 Thou seest me the meanest thing, and so I am indeed. 3.12 My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark; 3.13 But he, that loves the lowly, pours his oil upon my head, 3.14 And kisses me, and binds his nuptial bands around my breast, 3.15 And says: 'Thou mother of my children, I have loved thee 3.16 And I have given thee a crown that none can take away.' 3.17 But how this is, sweet maid, I know not, and I cannot know; 3.18 I ponder, and I cannot ponder; yet I live and love." 3.19 The daughter of beauty wip'd her pitying tears with her white veil, 3.20 And said: "Alas! I knew not this, and therefore did I weep. 3.21 That God would love a Worm I knew, and punish the evil foot 3.22 That wilful bruis'd its helpless form; but that he cherish'd it 3.23 With milk and oil I never knew, and therefore did I weep; 3.24 And I complain'd in the mild air, because I fade away, 3.25 And lay me down in thy cold bed, and leave my shining lot." 3.26 "Queen of the vales," the matron Clay answer'd, "I heard thy sighs, 3.27 And all thy moans flew o'er my roof, but I have call'd them down. 3.28 Wilt thou, O Queen, enter my house? 'Tis given thee to enter 3.29 And to return: fear nothing, enter with thy virgin feet." IV 4.1 The eternal gates' terrific porter lifted the northern bar: 4.2 Thel enter'd in and saw the secrets of the land unknown. 4.3 She saw the couches of the dead, and where the fibrous roots 4.4 Of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists: 4.5 A land of sorrows and of tears where never smile was seen. 4.6 She wander'd in the land of clouds thro' valleys dark, list'ning 4.7 Dolours and lamentations; waiting oft beside a dewy grave 4.8 She stood in silence, list'ning to the voices of the ground, 4.9 Till to her own grave plot she came, and there she sat down, 4.10 And heard this voice of sorrow breathed from the hollow pit. 4.11 "Why cannot the Ear be closed to its own destruction? 4.12 Or the glist'ning Eye to the poison of a smile? 4.13 Why are Eyelids stor'd with arrows ready drawn, 4.14 Where a thousand fighting men in ambush lie? 4.15 Or an Eye of gifts and graces show'ring fruits and coined gold? 4.16 Why a Tongue impress'd with honey from every wind? 4.17 Why an Ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in? 4.18 Why a Nostril wide inhaling terror, trembling, and affright? 4.19 Why a tender curb upon the youthful burning boy? 4.20 Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?" 4.21 The Virgin started from her seat, and with a shriek 4.22 Fled back unhinder'd till she came into the vales of Har.

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | The Lily Of The Valley Sweetest of the flowers a-blooming In the fragrant vernal days Is the Lily of the Valley With its soft, retiring ways. Well, you chose this humble blossom As the nurse's emblem flower, Who grows more like her ideal [Pg 238]Every day and every hour. Like the Lily of the Valley In her honesty and worth, Ah, she blooms in truth and virtue In the quiet nooks of earth. Tho' she stands erect in honor When the heart of mankind bleeds, Still she hides her own deserving In the beauty of her deeds. In the silence of the darkness Where no eye may see and know, There her footsteps shod with mercy, And fleet kindness come and go. Not amid the sounds of plaudits, Nor before the garish day, Does she shed her soul's sweet perfume, Does she take her gentle way. But alike her ideal flower, With its honey-laden breath, Still her heart blooms forth its beauty In the valley shades of death.