Best Famous Shrubbery Poems

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Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Four Quartets 1: Burnt Norton I Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind. But to what purpose Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves I do not know. Other echoes Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow? Quick, said the bird, find them, find them, Round the corner. Through the first gate, Into our first world, shall we follow The deception of the thrush? Into our first world. There they were, dignified, invisible, Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves, In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air, And the bird called, in response to The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses Had the look of flowers that are looked at. There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting. So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern, Along the empty alley, into the box circle, To look down into the drained pool. Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged, And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight, And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly, The surface glittered out of heart of light, And they were behind us, reflected in the pool. Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty. Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, Hidden excitedly, containing laughter. Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind Cannot bear very much reality. Time past and time future What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. II Garlic and sapphires in the mud Clot the bedded axle-tree. The trilling wire in the blood Sings below inveterate scars Appeasing long forgotten wars. The dance along the artery The circulation of the lymph Are figured in the drift of stars Ascend to summer in the tree We move above the moving tree In light upon the figured leaf And hear upon the sodden floor Below, the boarhound and the boar Pursue their pattern as before But reconciled among the stars. At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance. I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where. And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time. The inner freedom from the practical desire, The release from action and suffering, release from the inner And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving, Erhebung without motion, concentration Without elimination, both a new world And the old made explicit, understood In the completion of its partial ecstasy, The resolution of its partial horror. Yet the enchainment of past and future Woven in the weakness of the changing body, Protects mankind from heaven and damnation Which flesh cannot endure. Time past and time future Allow but a little consciousness. To be conscious is not to be in time But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden, The moment in the arbour where the rain beat, The moment in the draughty church at smokefall Be remembered; involved with past and future. Only through time time is conquered. III Here is a place of disaffection Time before and time after In a dim light: neither daylight Investing form with lucid stillness Turning shadow into transient beauty With slow rotation suggesting permanence Nor darkness to purify the soul Emptying the sensual with deprivation Cleansing affection from the temporal. Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker Over the strained time-ridden faces Distracted from distraction by distraction Filled with fancies and empty of meaning Tumid apathy with no concentration Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind That blows before and after time, Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs Time before and time after. Eructation of unhealthy souls Into the faded air, the torpid Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London, Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney, Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here Not here the darkness, in this twittering world. Descend lower, descend only Into the world of perpetual solitude, World not world, but that which is not world, Internal darkness, deprivation And destitution of all property, Desiccation of the world of sense, Evacuation of the world of fancy, Inoperancy of the world of spirit; This is the one way, and the other Is the same, not in movement But abstention from movement; while the world moves In appetency, on its metalled ways Of time past and time future. IV Time and the bell have buried the day, The black cloud carries the sun away. Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray Clutch and cling? Chill Fingers of yew be curled Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still At the still point of the turning world. V Words move, music moves Only in time; but that which is only living Can only die. Words, after speech, reach Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern, Can words or music reach The stillness, as a Chinese jar still Moves perpetually in its stillness. Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts, Not that only, but the co-existence, Or say that the end precedes the beginning, And the end and the beginning were always there Before the beginning and after the end. And all is always now. Words strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still. Shrieking voices Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering, Always assail them. The Word in the desert Is most attacked by voices of temptation, The crying shadow in the funeral dance, The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera. The detail of the pattern is movement, As in the figure of the ten stairs. Desire itself is movement Not in itself desirable; Love is itself unmoving, Only the cause and end of movement, Timeless, and undesiring Except in the aspect of time Caught in the form of limitation Between un-being and being. Sudden in a shaft of sunlight Even while the dust moves There rises the hidden laughter Of children in the foliage Quick now, here, now, always— Ridiculous the waste sad time Stretching before and after.

Written by Victor Hugo | Letter You can see it already: chalks and ochers; Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines; Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass; Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape; A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though: A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse); On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain All angular--you'd think a shovel did it. So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes; Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes, They carp at every gust that stirs them up. At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow Is rusting; and before me lies the vast Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue; Cocks and hens spread their gildings, and converse Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics, Now and then, toss me songs in dialect. In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker; The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff. I like these waters where the wild gale scuds; All day the country tempts me to go strolling; The little village urchins, book in hand, Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging), As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off. The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant Soft noise of children spelling things aloud. The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you! Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live: Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed My days, and think of you, my lady fair! I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times, Sailing across the high seas in its pride, Over the gables of the tranquil village, Some winged ship which is traveling far away, Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds. Lately it slept in port beside the quay. Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge: No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives, Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters, Nor importunity of sinister birds.

Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | April Is The Saddest Month There they were stuck dog and ***** halving the compass Then when with his yip they parted oh how frolicsome she grew before him playful dancing and how disconsolate he retreated hang-dog she following through the shrubbery

Written by Robinson Jeffers | Contrast The world has many seas, Mediterranean, Atlantic, but here is the shore of the one ocean. And here the heavy future hangs like a cloud; the enormous scene; the enormous games preparing Weigh on the water and strain the rock; the stage is here, the play is conceived; the players are not found. I saw on the Sierras, up the Kaweah valley above the Moro rock, the mountain redwoods Like red towers on the slopes of snow; about their bases grew a bushery of Christmas green, Firs and pines to be monuments for pilgrimage In Europe; I remembered the Swiss forests, the dark robes of Pilatus, no trunk like these there; But these are underwood; they are only a shrubbery about the boles of the trees. Our people are clever and masterful; They have powers in the mass, they accomplish marvels. It is possible Time will make them before it annuls them, but at present There is not one memorable person, there is not one mind to stand with the trees, one life with the mountains.

Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Mr. Apollinax WHEN Mr. Apollinax visited the United States His laughter tinkled among the teacups. I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch-trees, And of Priapus in the shrubbery Gaping at the lady in the swing. In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor Channing-Cheetah’s He laughed like an irresponsible foetus. His laughter was submarine and profound Like the old man of the sea’s Hidden under coral islands Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence, Dropping from fingers of surf. I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling under a chair Or grinning over a screen With seaweed in its hair. I heard the beat of centaur’s hoofs over the hard turf As his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon. “He is a charming man”—“But after all what did he mean?”— “His pointed ears... He must be unbalanced,”— “There was something he said that I might have challenged.” Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs. Cheetah I remember a slice of lemon, and a bitten macaroon.

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Bonnie Kilmany Bonnie Kilmany, in the County of Fife, Is a healthy spot to reside in to lengthen one's life. The scenery there in the summer time is truly grand, Especially the beautiful hills and the woodland. Chorus -- Then, bonnie Annie, will you go with me And leave the crowded city of Dundee, And breathe the pure, fragrant air In the Howe of Kilmany, so lovely and fair? And the little village in the Howe is lovely to see, In the midst of green trees and shrubbery; And the little rivulet, as it wimples along, Can be heard singing aloud an aquatic song. Chorus And the old church there is built on a knoll, And on the Sabbath mornings the church bell does toll, Inviting the people to join in prayer, While the echoes of the bell is heard in mid-air. Chorus Then there's a little schoolroom, surrounded by trees, A favourite haunt for butterflies and busy bees, And an old red-tiled smithy near by, And the clink of the hammers can be heard sounding high. Chorus And thew's a wood sawmill by the roadway, And the noise can be heard by night and day, As the circular saw wheels round and round, Making the village with its echoes resound. Chorus And in the harvest time on a fine summer morn The Howe looks most beautiful when the corn is shorn; And to hear the beautiful lark singing on high Will make you exclaim, "Dull care, good-bye."

Written by Stanley Kunitz | The Snakes of September All summer I heard them rustling in the shrubbery, outracing me from tier to tier in my garden, a whisper among the viburnums, a signal flashed from the hedgerow, a shadow pulsing in the barberry thicket. Now that the nights are chill and the annuals spent, I should have thought them gone, in a torpor of blood slipped to the nether world before the sickle frost. Not so. In the deceptive balm of noon, as if defiant of the curse that spoiled another garden, these two appear on show through a narrow slit in the dense green brocade of a north-country spruce, dangling head-down, entwined in a brazen love-knot. I put out my hand and stroke the fine, dry grit of their skins. After all, we are partners in this land, co-signers of a covenant. At my touch the wild braid of creation trembles.

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Beautiful Monikie Beautiful Monikie! with your trees and shrubberies green And your beautiful walks, most charming to be seen: 'Tis a beautiful place for pleasure-seekers to resort, Because there they can have innocent sport, taking a leisure walk all round about, And see the ang1ers fishing in the pand for trout. Besides, there's lovely white swans swimming on the pond, And Panmure Monument can be seen a little distance beyond; And the scenery all round is enchanting I declare, While sweet-scented fragrance fills the air. Then away, pleasure-seekers of bonnie Dundee, And have a day's outing around Monikie, And inhale the pure air, on a fine summer day, Which will help to drive dull care away; As ye gaze on the beautiful scenery there, Your spirits will feel o'erjoyed and free frozen care. Then near to the pond there's a beautiful green sward, Where excursionists can dance until fatigue does them retard; And if they feel thirsty, the Monikie water's near by, Where they can quench their thirst if very dry. Then, after that, they can have a walk at their ease, Amongst the green shrubbery and tall pine trees; And in the centre of the pand they can see Three beautiful little islets dressed in green livery. Monikie is as bonnie a place as ye could wish to see, And about eleven or twelve miles from bonnie Dundee; It's the only place I know of to enjoy a holiday, Because there's a hall of shelter there to keep the rain away. Then there's a large park, a very suitable place, For the old and the young, if they wish to try a race; It's there they can enjoy themselves during the live-long summmer day, Near to the little purling burn, meandering on its way, And emptying itself into the pond of Monikie, Which supplies the people with water belonging to Dundee.

Written by Dylan Thomas | Dylan Thomas - Holy Spring O Out of a bed of love When that immortal hospital made one more moove to soothe The curless counted body, And ruin and his causes Over the barbed and shooting sea assumed an army And swept into our wounds and houses, I climb to greet the war in which I have no heart but only That one dark I owe my light, Call for confessor and wiser mirror but there is none To glow after the god stoning night And I am struck as lonely as a holy marker by the sun. No Praise that the spring time is all Gabriel and radiant shrubbery as the morning grows joyful Out of the woebegone pyre And the multitude's sultry tear turns cool on the weeping wall, My arising prodgidal Sun the father his quiver full of the infants of pure fire, But blessed be hail and upheaval That uncalm still it is sure alone to stand and sing Alone in the husk of man's home And the mother and toppling house of the holy spring, If only for a last time.

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Beautiful Newport on the Braes o the Silvery Tay Bonnie Mary, the Maid o' the Tay, Come! Let's go, and have a holiday In Newport, on the braes o' the silvery Tay, 'Twill help to drive dull care away. The scenery there is most enchanting to be seen, Especially the fine mansions with their shrubbery green; And the trees and ivy are beautiful to view Growing in front of each stately home in the avenue. There the little birds and beautiful butterflies Are soaring heavenwards almost to the skies, And the busy bees are to be seen on the wing, As from flower to flower they hummingly sing, As they gather honey all the day, From flowery gardens of Newport on the braes o' the Tay. And as we view the gardens our hearts will feel gay After being pent up in the workshop all the day. Then there's a beautiful spot near an old mill, Suitable for an artist to paint of great skill, And the trees are arched o'erhead, lovely to be seen, Which screens ye from the sunshine's glittering sheen. Therefore, holiday makers, I'd have ye resort To Newport on the braes o' the Tay for sport, And inhale the pure air with its sweet perfume, Emanating from the flowery gardens of Newport and the yellow broom. And when bright Sol sinks in the West You'll return home at night quite refreshed, And dream in your beds of your rambles during the day Along the bonnie braes o' the silvery Tay.