Here are few poems written, most of them, very long ago.
Ah sunflower! Weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller’s journey is done.
That was written by William Blake.
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The next two are written by Thomas Hood:
The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And is no match for me;
And the daisy’s cheek is tipped with a blush,
She is of such low degree.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom’s betrothed to the bee;
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.
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The roses were gathered by the garden gate,
Where our meetings though early, seemed always too late
Where ling’ring full oft through a summer-night’s moon,
Our partings, though late, appeared always too soon.
That was written by Thomas Moore
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Oh were my love you lilac fair,
With purple blossoms in the spring,
And I a bird to shelter there.
That one was written by Robert Burns.
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And the last is by John Clare:
The violets by the Woodland side
Are thick as they could thrive
I’ve talked to them with childish pride
As things that were alive.
This is Moya Andrews, and today we focused on flowers in verse.
