What though the radiance which was once so bright Be not forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; Grief not, rather find, Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be, In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of Human suffering, In the faith that looks through death In years that bring philophic mind.
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Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, Hid in this silent, dull retreat, Untouched thy honied blossoms blow, Unseen thy little branches greet; ...No roving foot shall crush thee here, ...No busy hand provoke a tear. By Nature's self in white arrayed, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, And planted here the gaurdian shade, And sent soft waters murmuring by; ...Thus quietly thy summer goes, ...Thy days declinging to repose. Smit with those charms, that must decay, I grieve to see your future doom; They died--nor were those flowers more gay, The flowers that did in Eden bloom; ...Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power ...Shall leave no vestige of this flower. From morning suns and evenign dews At first thy little being came: If nothing once, you nothing lose, For when you die you are the same; ...The space between, is but an hour, ...The frail duration of a flower.
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I muse with the greatest affection on every flower I have known from my infancy - their shapes and colours are as new to me as if I had just created them with a superhuman fancy - It is because they are connected with the most thoughtless and happiest moments of our lives.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today, Tomorrow will be dying.
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Us sing and dance, make faces and give flower bouquets, trying to be loved. You ever notice that trees do everything to git attention we do, except walk
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Apathy isn’t it. We can do something. So flower power didn’t work. So what. We start again.
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What though the radiance which was once so bright Be not forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be, In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of Human suffering, In the faith that looks through death In years that bring philophic mind.
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Times is still a-flying And this same flower that smiles today, Tomorrow will be dying.
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And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see: or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read.
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.
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For a hundred years I breathe and live, the flower of beauty and the bread of kindness. I am your friendly shade in the noonday heat of summer, and I stand pencilled against the winter twilight, a silhouette for dreams. At dawning in the spring I am filled with song, the host to a thousand birds, and I decorate the autumn with pageantry and colour. Then comes the woodsman with his axe. And still I serve. I am the timber that builds your boat; the rafters of your cathedrals; the choirstalls of your church enriched by the magic of the carver's fingers. I am the beam that holds your house; the door of your homestead, and the lintel too. I am the handle of your hoe; the wood of your cradle; the bed on which you lie; the board of your table and the board for your bread. When I am living, harm me not. When I am dead, respect me and use me kindly.
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Respect human talent, respond to genius, recognize reality, admire truth and beauty, realize the meaning of the rare flower Reason.
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Just living is not enough, said the Butterfly. One must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower.
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Though like the wanderer, The sun gone down,...
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A family is a place where minds come in contact with one another. If these minds love one another the home will be as beautiful as a flower garden. But if these minds get out of harmony with one another it is like a storm that plays havoc with the garden.
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Us sing and dance, make faces and give flower bouquets, trying to be loved. You ever notice that trees do everything to git attention we do, except walk?
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The lotus flower is troubled At the sun's resplendent light; With sunken head and sadly She dreamily waits for the night.
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What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be not forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
Grief not, rather find,
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of Human suffering,
In the faith that looks through death
In years that bring philophic mind.
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This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
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Beauty is but a flower, which wrinkles will devour.
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Just living is not enough. One must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower.
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The flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all.
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For man, as for flower and beast and bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly, most perfectly alive.
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by Spoon Rivergathering many a shell, And many a flower and medicinal weed—...
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There is not a flower or bird in sight, only a small screen on which lines are moving, while the child sits almost motionless, pushing at the keyboard with one finger. As a learning environment, it may be mentally rich, but it is perceptually extremely impoverished. No smells or tastes, no wind or bird song (unless the computer is programmed to produce electronic tweets), no connection with soil, water, sunlight, warmth, the actual learning environment is almost autistic in quality, impoverished sensually, emotionally, and socially.
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Just now the lilac is in bloom, All before my little room; And in my flower-beds, I think, Smile the carnation and the pink...
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Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.
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