"cowslips" poems
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moonè’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
7.9k
XXXIII
Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear
The name I used to run at, when a child,
From innocent play, and leave the cowslips piled,
To glance up in some face that proved me dear
With the look of its eyes. I miss the clear
Fond voices which, being drawn and reconciled
Into the music of Heaven’s undefiled,
Call me no longer. Silence on the bier,
While I call God—call God!—So let thy mouth
Be heir to those who are now exanimate.
Gather the north flowers to complete the south,
And catch the early love up in the late.
Yes, call me by that name,—and I, in truth,
With the same heart, will answer and not wait.
6k
In praise of Eliza, Queen of the Shepherds
See where she sits upon the grassie greene,
(O seemely sight!)
Yclad in Scarlot, like a mayden Queene,
And ermines white:
Upon her head a Cremosin coronet
With Damaske roses and Daffadillies set:
Bay leaves betweene,
And primroses greene,
Embellish the sweete Violet.
Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face
Like Phoebe fayre?
Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,
Can you well compare?
The Redde rose medled with the White yfere,
In either cheeke depeincten lively chere:
Her modest eye,
Her Majestie,
Where have you seene the like but there?
I see Calliope speede her to the place,
Where my Goddesse shines;
And after her the other Muses trace
With their Violines.
Bene they not Bay braunches which they do beare,
All for Elisa in her hand to weare?
So sweetely they play,
And sing all the way,
That it a heaven is to heare.
Lo, how finely the Graces can it foote
To the Instrument:
They dauncen deffly, and singen soote,
In their meriment.
Wants not a fourth Grace to make the daunce even?
Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven.
She shal be a Grace,
To fyll the fourth place,
And reigne with the rest in heaven.
Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine,
With Gelliflowres;
Bring Coronations, and Sops-in-wine
Worne of Paramoures:
Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies,
And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and lovèd Lillies:
The pretie Pawnce,
And the Chevisaunce,
Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.
Now ryse up, Elisa, deckèd as thou art
In royall aray;
And now ye daintie Damsells may depart
Eche one her way.
I feare I have troubled your troupes to longe:
Let dame Elisa thanke you for her song:
And if you come hether
When Damsines I gether,
I will part them all you among.
4.4k
The seasons send their ruin as they go,
For in the spring the narciss shows its head
Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,
And in the autumn purple violets blow,
And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;
Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again
And this grey land grow green with summer rain
And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.
But what of life whose bitter hungry sea
Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night
Covers the days which never more return?
Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn
We lose too soon, and only find delight
In withered husks of some dead memory.
3.9k
I met a gorilla
Gardener
In a jungle
Of native species
She kept her oxeye
Daisy on me the whole time
A cowslips past unnoticed
By the blush red columbine
Lily of the valley was
Sporting a fox’s glove
The cornflower and the cardinal
Seek guidance from above
A swamp of soured milk weeds
Seeps past your eyes
The firmly rooted ragged robin
Looks up awestruck at the skies
The bergamot was wild
Running circles round the yarrow
Black eyed Susan moped along
With her bluebell filled wheelbarrow
Good dogwood sets paw after paw
Creeping through the common nettle
As lance-leaved coreopsis
Charges in to test his mettle
I left a gorilla
Gardening
In a jungle
Of native species
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 4:19 PM UTC
Honeyed icing-sugar
sun melts the snow caps
on the mountains
hair and grates the tough
green, soft
In Caramel pastures,
In sunken hills,
Under the seaweed,
Cowslips grow,
With rubied spotted
Ladies crawling up blades,
And the bumbles rumbled
buzz, a continuous growl,
Sways the floating gold.
The dark spider darts
Spearing crumpled
Flies in its silken steel
Thread. Thread which sparkles
amid the Bronze knives
which spear it too.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
Ye have been fresh and green,
Ye have been fill’d with flowers,
And ye the walks have been
Where maids have spent their hours.
You have beheld how they
With wicker arks did come
To kiss and bear away
The richer cowslips home.
You’ve heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a round:
Each ****** like a spring,
With honeysuckles crown’d.
But now we see none here
Whose silv’ry feet did tread
And with dishevell’d hair
Adorn’d this smoother mead.
Like unthrifts, having spent
Your stock and needy grown,
You’re left here to lament
Your poor estates, alone.
2.1k
Barry’s dead.
I saw you dying weeks ago;
An oyster shell turned empty can,
Scrumpled up and finished
By the past’s magnet attraction
In your shakey hands.
It’s just a habit now and you can hardly kick yourself.
Buckets of Grolsch:
My swash-buckling hero
Turned slosh-slurping zero once again
And shiny surfaces
Never suited you.
Scrub away at that black demon matter
With the sole white spirit
Your genius affords. A shattered socialist
Posy primrose ******
That’s the story of your life –
All
most
man.
Now beneath the cowslips
And the heifer’s hooves,
Your saintly-thorny words without a roof:
But who will speak for you?
And trawl the depths
As you once did in youth?
Prizing open oysters…
I hope that where you are
Your silence brings relief.
I hope that where you are
You smell the borage breeze.
I hope that where you are
There’s ox-cheek for tea
And your carbonated past
Is carbonating in mute peace.
Tonight the argent stars
Are dulled in disbelief
Tonight the slate that you’ve carved
Is the hardest you will teach.
Tonight the tumblestones
Are falling down in grief:
For Barry’s gone to rediscover Pearl
And the beauty of her peace.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 4:40 AM UTC
Good-morrow to the day so fair,
Good-morning, sir, to you;
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair
Bedabbled with the dew.
Good-morning to this primrose too,
Good-morrow to each maid
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my love is laid.
Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me!
Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee
Which bore my love away.
I’ll seek him in your bonnet brave,
I’ll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they’ve made his grave
I’ th’ bed of strawberries.
I’ll seek him there; I know ere this
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, sir, to awake him.
Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him,
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.
He ’s soft and tender (pray take heed);
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home—but ’tis decreed
That I shall never find him!
1.9k
I saw her crop a rose
Right early in the day,
And I went to kiss the place
Where she broke the rose away
And I saw the patten rings
Where she o’er the stile had gone,
And I love all other things
Her bright eyes look upon.
If she looks upon the hedge or up the leafing tree,
The whitethorn or the brown oak are made dearer things to me.
I have a pleasant hill
Which I sit upon for hours,
Where she cropt some sprigs of thyme
And other little flowers;
And she muttered as she did it
As does beauty in a dream,
And I loved her when she hid it
On her breast, so like to cream,
Near the brown mole on her neck that to me a diamond shone;
Then my eye was like to fire, and my heart was like to stone.
There is a small green place
Where cowslips early curled,
Which on Sabbath day I traced,
The dearest in the world.
A little oak spreads o’er it,
And throws a shadow round,
A green sward close before it,
The greenest ever found:
There is not a woodland nigh nor is there a green grove,
Yet stood the fair maid nigh me and told me all her love.
1.9k
the other day
it felt like overnight
spring flowers had appeared across the meadows
cowslips spring snowflakes crocuses daisies daffodils
they tell me
in a little while it will be spring
no matter that white caps still decorate the mountains
storms blow rain sleet and snow across the land
the flowers know
they will not fold their leaves
grow back into their cozy soil and wait some more
they will defy a few more frosty days
slow down a little in their flow of energy
then blossom forth in all their power
show us that nature’s life renews itself again in force
no matter what our mood might be
flowers will bloom
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 5:11 PM UTC
Here a solemn fast we keep,
While all beauty lies asleep;
Hushed be all things, no noise here,
But the toning of a tear,
Or the sigh of such as bring
Cowslips for her covering.
1.4k
O husband, behold the marks that mar your handsome face!
The angry red where poison left its sting,
Where my arms trembled.
Where I failed to save you,
If ever you were mine to save.
O husband, remember when your eyes first met mine!
We were so young,
When we married beneath the world tree.
When we danced among cowslips and primroses,
Like life would always be dancing.
O husband, think fondly on the first child!
Meant to be a great warrior,
Born as night broke into dawn.
Born a prince who would never be king,
By no fault of his own doing.
O husband, think too on the second son!
The magician and scholar,
Gentle in thought and action.
Gentle in word and deed,
That innocent youth.
O husband, cry for that betrayal!
The punishment passed down
By highest authority and greatest king.
By queen who shared my lineage,
Who in punishing you punished us all.
O husband, forgive my tears!
Those that drip down my face,
Landing on our dirtied robes.
Landing on your ashen skin,
As cooling as the poison is hot.
O husband, my strength grows weak!
She the always faithful,
My arms burn with the weight of two small corpses.
My arms sing with the agony of venom,
Fingers trembling where they grasp the golden bowl.
But O husband, I shall never leave!
Faith unwavering I sit by the eternal flame,
My husband the Silvertongue whose voice has long gone out.
My husband the Sky Traveler, who now lays bound to the earth,
I shall hold the bowl unto eternity.
O husband, behold the marks that mar that handsome face!
The angry red where poison left its sting,
Where it is soothed by the tears from mine own cheeks.
Where I failed to save you,
If ever you were mine to save.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 12:50 AM UTC
Before you turn and finally part,
Unwind this tourniquet from...
Enough! You know the rhyme and how it ends:
“...blah, blah, blah, from my heart”
Too much angst for me. I refuse the rejected lover's curtain call.
No more: “Your neck gave no early warning
Of warm seduction in the morning.”
And some: “Your neck gave no early warning,
That it needs shaving in the morning.”
This is cathartic.
You might have liked: “Your tresses, spread like Sif's woven gold,
Are plated on my inner soul.”
But now: “Your tresses shined like Sif's woven gold
Will thin and grey as you grow old.”
Ouch! But I'm feeling better.
I could have written: “Your nose bridges such eyes and lips
That shame golden flowering May cowslips.”
Instead: “That nose that bridges eyes and lips
With time and gravity droop and drip.”
Are you getting my inner self yet?
You will miss: “Legs that lead to heaven's gate,
Held promise if I deigned to wait.”
I won't miss with: “Those legs that lead to heaven's gate
Now hinged for all below the waist.”
Funny, isn't it, how one's outlook changes.
Oh! Your eyes and teeth.
“Your eyes are black holes stealing light,
Your teeth like yellow stars at night.”
Do I feel better now?
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
*We'll go to the meadows, where the cowslips do grow,
And buttercups, looking as yellow as gold;
And daisies and violets begining to blow;
For it is a most beautiful sight to behold.
The little bee humming about them is seen,
The butterfly merrily dances along;
The grasshopper chirps in the hedges so green,
And the linnet is singing his liveliest song.
The birds and the insects are happy and gay,
The beasts of the field they are glad and rejoice,
And we will be thankful to God every day,
And praise His great name in a loftier voice.
He made the green meadows, He planted the flowers.
He sent His bright sun in the heavens to blaze;
He created these wonderful bodies of ours,
And as long as we live we will sing of His praise.*
Jane and Ann Taylor
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
Jane showed me
the tombstone
of the farmhand
who had fallen
under his tractor
the year before
a few wild flowers
were placed
in a jam jar
in front
his wife and daughter
are still in
the tied cottage
Jane said
but they'll need
to move out soon
once the local council
finds them
somewhere to live
I looked
at the words
on the small stone
I didn't know him well
she added
he was a quiet man
cows mooed
from a nearby field
I looked at Jane
next to me
he was only 35
I said
quite a few men
die in the way he did
on the land
she said
she knelt down
and placed
a few cowslips
in the jam jar
and tapped them
into shape
she stood up
and we walked
around the church
and along the path
onto the narrow road
between
the high hedgerows
birds sang
the sun shone
down on us
how's your father doing?
she asked
he's ok
he likes his work
in the woods
keeps him fit
he says
I said
we stood in
by the hedge
as a tractor
went by
she smelt of apples
as I got close
to her
her dark hair
was tied
in a ponytail
her dark eyes
gazed at me
the tractor sped
along the narrow road
towards the farm
I wanted
to kiss her
but I didn't
I looked at the sky
where rooks flew
overhead
but dreamed
that night
that I kissed her
inside my head.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
cut deep, while others are sleeping.
we tread the way, from here to there,
leaving a trail. you may follow.
cut round the cowslips, leave the twigs.
step this way, it leads to the old apple tree,
cookers. step that way
plum blossom.
nothng is straight, nothing planned.
later we watched chelsea .
sbm.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
Treasure the path we walked along
It was not chosen but became a song
Not for freedoms are we born
Nor for the cowslips at dawn
But somewhere in our hours
We give to others
More than a smile .
Love Mary ***
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
In Summer when the dew lays down
And fragrance sears the sky on high
We walk where yellow cowslips dine
And we go so slow.
Love Mary **
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 6:25 PM UTC