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Kon Grin May 2017
Throw me in the chartreuse fields
So I can leave my pain behind
Violets and Daffodils will turn
Me into their kids

Buy me out of sable walls
So I can see the other side
Violets and Daffodils will kiss
My spine

Say white, say blue
On a spring afternoon

Whisper out loud

Take me out for a walk on moon
So i can plant lovat' on stone.
Violets and daffodils will grow
On a pale ball.

Lie with me on frosty grass
Keep your feet above the stars.
Violets and daffodils will pass
But we can last.
Courtesy of Iwalf. Text written in collaboration of @kon_grin @greatbigcongratulations and @wonderwall.***
Sally A Bayan May 2016
In early, or late spring
the daffodils appear, to enchant us
stems are firm, while
holding clusters of bloom.
they enhance our views...our spirits,
arraying our horizons, with fresh hope
fresh perspectives
never giving space to doom.
are offered, not singly,
but in bunches,
just like the way a mother gives herself,
never just a piece,
she  reaches out with her hand
when in fact, she has offered her whole body
always...with open arms.

Most times, she wears lively colors
of white, yellow, gold, and green,
whatever the season,
whatever circumstances she may face
her smile, her warmth,
are the most colorful parts of her being

There is a lilt in her eyes,
in her her her words
in her she does her chores
such a miracle, all these graces, she offers

On a sunny and windy day
a mother is like
those dancing daffodils
on the hills and wayside
staying strong enough, while the winds of life
not to fall down...or be blown away,
she may be silenced by frustration and worries
but never surrenders to ensuing hardships
just choosing to be quiet...seeming dormant.

She is both a bulb...and an all-season root crop,
stuffed with needed energy
quiet underneath when the cold season comes
but never dead...never fallen
always gathering, saving strength,
for when a storm in life comes
not one to mope...but one to ease a healing balm.

A mother is a rare kind of a daffodil
one that gleams with bright lights, and bold colors
all year round...through all kinds of weather.


Copyright May 8, 2016

Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Happy Mother's Day to all mothers and grandmothers!
Ason May 2017
“Nobody owns life, but anyone who can
pick up a frying pan owns death.”
– William S. Burroughs

Through a door that is not mine
that’s left ajar from time to time
we see a man with zany eyes
scarred-up face, mouth full of lies.

Through a window at an ungodly hour
the night our neighborhood lost power
we see the man pull on a mask
and knit the weavings of his task.

I should have gotten quite the scare
when he pulled that woman by her hair,
then tossed her in the hole he’d fill
and quickly cover with daffodils,

but I’m no stranger to playing detective;
his plots have proven rather defective.
A call to the cops brings a rap on his door
that eventually leads to the lush garden floor.

Now, I don’t think I’m deserving of fame
my ego is simply much too tame
but I have kept dark things from view
and you listen well, so I’ll share with you.

There is something you should recognize
in that man with zany eyes;
don’t always believe what you’re told to see,
for he who plants the daffodils is me.
I promise I have not killed anyone. Inspired by and partially lifted from a Tommy Siegel song.
Donall Dempsey Jan 2016

******* blossom
on the dancing washing line
December daffodils

her blouse
wearing only weather
blooms bustily

all her clothes
mimic the body
that has worn them

"Come...dancing!" hollers the wind
"HeeeehAWWWW!' shout the clothes
line dancing

an infatuated ra-ra skirt
jumps off line
goes solo

ra-ra skirt elopes with wind
over the wall it goes
scaring the cat

******* cling on
for dear life
oooOOOPS...they're down

a bouquet of *******
scatter over lavender bushes
daffodils dancing

now the wind falls
the clothes ashamed of themselves

a pink *******
perched rudely
upon the rue

I go gather 'em up
the ******* blush
at their misbehaviours

the ra-ra skirt
knows the game is up
comes quietly

only the daffs surprised
to find themselves here at all
giving themselves airs and graces

daffs yell in yellow
bow their lovely heads
pray to whatever God made them

"Dear Lord..." they passionately pray
"Thank you for giving us
this delightful December!"
Sasevardhni Dec 2018
I have never known that I will be my tutor,
Since 2014 every respective day,
Is self-taught schooling in a way,
Day in and day out I discovered a lot.
Every year we mount up not realizing that we really are.
Though most of us look forth, some of us never fail to look back at our amour.

At a glance, Wordsworth saw ten thousand daffodils.
So did I, but my past.
Every day appeared different to me.

Have I been that one person?
Who cribbed and mourned with least reasons.
Knowing that God bestows me with joyful seasons,
I underestimated the power of self-taught lessons
As I considered them as unseen lesions.
Forgetting that they encompassed a few of my missions.

At a glance, Wordsworth saw ten thousand daffodils.
So did I, but my present.
Every heyday wasn't innovative to me

The year was good for me
But, I didn't allow anyone to see
As I have always thought of the secret behind being free
It would have taken a few minutes to glee
Where I kept waiting for my fling to cross the seven seas.
No wonder why didn't I seize, the best moments of gleaming breeze.

At a glance, Wordsworth saw ten thousand daffodils.
So did I, but my future.
Each day was a threat to me.

Though complaints and blames are two different terms,
They deserve a meaning of their own.
As I knew my students deserve the best lessons
I sowed good thoughts and positive vibes.
Like a preacher, I followed a few of my words.
But I didn't bother to carry to them in my world.

At a glance, Wordsworth saw ten thousand daffodils.
So did I, but roses, thorns, and petals.
Each and every day reminded me, who should I be.

There is a heaven and a hell in every one of us
We need to find out the best and worst sides of it
But most of never know how to figure out.
I could be one of them.
We have our answers for dos and don'ts
Have I not been the one?
Who mostly won
All my battles on my own.
Thomas Thurman May 2010
This scent, semi-sour
Of the daffodils four
Holds time in its power.
This scent, semi-sour:
There must come an hour
I'll sense it no more:
This scent, semi-sour
Of the daffodils four.
The problem with this triolet when written down is the visual confusion between "sour" and "four".  It works better spoken.
Himanshi Jul 2014
Awakened by the melody
of the chirping by the birdies
who beseech nothing more
but the fragrance the daffodils wore
around their silken petals yellow
and between their green sepals mellow.

Reminisce their time spent
under the magical snow bent
which ****** upon their existence vast
driving them to desert their casts.

Comes the harbinger of life, the spring
and they bloom with the soothing breeze
Each petal of the whorl curls
with stories of varying degrees.

Why though do they bend coyly
when asked about love?
Spring is Love , it's here today,
The Daffodils Shy away.
Wrote after very very long
Khan BA Sep 2017

Daffodils in the garden made my day,
Even as they bloomed but couldn’t say,
I watched them spring out of the wet clay,
The first of the flowers that made my day.
The serene beauty that bloomed out from petal lips,
Greeted the coming spring with their dancing hips
The joy that flooded my 'umble heart,
Was great to feel in a life, time apart.
These daffodils in my garden aren't unknown,
But those that my Gardener had earlier sown,
They have the beauty of his golden eyes
And so soft that only his grace imbibes.
I bow to thee O my Master, my Lord,
Unworthy of thee but still your part,
These daffodils that you have grown,
Is my reward that I am not alone!

( By: Khan, BA for His Master ,April 5, 2011 at 11:52pm )
For my teacher, my master, Sheikh Ali
Bethany Spencer Apr 2014
Oh, brilliant sun, do not burn too hot
The ice may have thawed
But be temperate.

The daffodils soared from the ashes of snow
But the coming of summer is how they will go.

Oh, brilliant sun, do not burn too hot
Diminish the cold,
But the daffodils not.
Simon Clark Aug 2012
I look upon a field of daffodils,
In need of grooming,
So my mirror says,
But my heart is light,
Warm and free,
Head out to see the stars,
As Easter dawns and night departs,
I look upon a field of daffodils.
written in 2006
Marian Dec 2012
Daffodils in Spring,
That's why we sing of sweet Spring,
Daffodils of gold!

Fair daffodils, we weep to see
  You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
  Has not attain’d his noon.
        Stay, stay
    Until the hasting day
        Has run
    But to the evensong;
And, having pray’d together, we
    Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
  We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
  As you, or anything.
        We die
    As your hours do, and dry
    Like to the summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
    Ne’er to be found again.
Timothy Oct 2012
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
         You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
         Has not attain'd his noon.
                        Stay, stay,
                Until the hasting day
                        Has run
                But to the even-song;
And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
         We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
         As you, or anything.
                        We die
                As your hours do, and dry
                Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

**~Robert Herrick 1591—1674~
s y k Mar 2014
You left me stranded
in bleak oblivion,
Despite all the love
I planted in your core,
In faith for daffodils to bloom through your barren soul.

Your wielded words had crippled me time and time again
Paralysing my senses,
Until my sanity began to decay.

But now I've bled you out of my veins
And unto my paper for the last era,
Inking your name away
Untangling myself out of these chains.

The moment has come for me to let you go
After fifteen months, you’d think I already did so.

Copyright © 2014 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
I'm finally letting you go after fifteen months of agony. I won't be writing about you any more.
Matthias Feb 2011
Dance to the beat of the daffodils upon the blades of grass.
Through the wind escaping from the valley.
They move solely to soak in the sun,
Growing them into a song and dance.
Picked by two lovers on a summers day.
Placed in the space behind the ear,
Camouflaged within her hair.
Traveling seeing the whole land.
Planted in the garden at home,
Sinking the roots down to grow another choir.
Spring up to sing a perfect harmony.
Tuning to the Autumn breeze.
Unifying all who has a chance to stop and ponder on certain things.
Thus become distracted and embraced,
By the smell of those dancing daffodils.
L Aug 2018







(Meaning behind meeting)

Does it make sense yet? Now? No? Okay, nevermind.
No host of golden daffodils do I see when I look around me.
Just the debris of a life, cut short by a knife.
I wandered lonely not over vale, but over my body
Lying prone on the floor, no breath does it host anymore.
My eyes gaze sightless into the distance,
a sphinx upon the waste land of the laminated floor.
My hair limp, not fluttering in the breeze, my blood cooling into a pool
my death scene, gives such chills, that renders even golden daffodils pale
Death does indeed ride a pale horse.
He shows no remorse.
Wilted in a vase, wasted on the floor, I await my light, my open door.
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
          And dances with the daffodils.

01:16 GMT
Jay Bryant Jun 2013
As the wind spins the daffodils
My head starts to fill with reflections of you
Looking at the sky, wondering if I,
A mere peasant, could come close to you
I see you as Royalty,  
My heart no longer cares for me, Only you
A velvet color bleeds upon my chest
I sense you are different from the rest
Tho, this blood sticks to my skin
Reality is it comes from, within me
You slay me, constantly causing dismay
My heat is shaped for you, As if it is formed of clay
I am loyal to your eyes, I wear a mask
You can see through my disguise, only in the day
At night animal instincts arise, my howls crack the moon
How I yearn for you, I search for you, my heart cries to you
This piece you've given me won't suffice I need all of you
Capture your beauty into my life, forever a picture last
Tho, I dream to bring Kodak to life, if only for a night
When the beast preys on the innocent ones,
When the Sun is gone and the Moon has risen
Cover me in shadows and release night from prision
Endure my afflictions I will, If your willing to wait with me
Wait with me until your realize you love me,
These hues of colors are bright, Yes happiness
Will find us, If you stay with me
Until the waters run cold
The heat from our love
Is left to keep us warm
Just stay with me as the wind spins the daffodils,
And the plot thickens. Stick with me
When all is gone because or love must go on
Even if you don't know it yet.
Bells Mar 2017
Once on a dark morning, at the dawning of Spring,
I sat at my window where no bird would sing
In my dark musty room that I'd come to call home,
in the dread and the stench where all hope was forgone.

On this stagnant spring morning I arose from my sill,
left my demons a'scorning to head for the hill,
to look for the sun, where it bloomed all about
in the grass, in the rocks, and in the wall's dusty grout.

I tore the golden blossoms from the ground where they grew,
and put them in a vase and filled it with dew.
I took them back home to my dungeon of stone,
prisoners I'd keep, sunshine of my own,
to rot on a table, and light up my space,
to share in my misery, bringing smiles to my face.

I gave them my love. I gave them affection,
for in their short life span, we shared a connection.
We were all flowers in a dusty rotten room
that once reached for the sky before accepting our doom.

Like branches of Daphne, more glorious than Apollo,
the daffodils shone in my sad, grotesque hollow.
And when they had withered, pathetic with hurt
I freed them from their prison and buried them in the dirt.

One year later, while the afternoon is still,
I drive by the daffodils growing on the hill.
How dare I admire them, growing lovely and free?
They are the essence of everything I'm too cowardly to be.

I'm sorry sunshine. I don't deserve you.
Sa May 2015
Daffodils in my garden
lie damaged & still
Fragile spirits of
these delicate dancers
crushed by-
the angry assaults thru the sky.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

I dreaded that first Robin, so,
But He is mastered, now,
I’m accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though—

I thought If I could only live
Till that first Shout got by—
Not all Pianos in the Woods
Had power to mangle me—

I dared not meet the Daffodils—
For fear their Yellow Gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own—

I wished the Grass would hurry—
So—when ’twas time to see—
He’d be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch—to look at me—

I could not bear the Bees should come,
I wished they’d stay away
In those dim countries where they go,
What word had they, for me?

They’re here, though; not a creature failed—
No Blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me—
The Queen of Calvary—

Each one salutes me, as he goes,
And I, my childish Plumes,
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
Of their unthinking Drums—
Jay Bryant Jun 2013
As the wind spins the daffodils
My head starts to fill with reflections of you
Looking at the sky, wondering if I,
A mere peasant, could come close to you
I see you as Royalty,  
My heart no longer cares for me, Only you
A velvet color bleeds upon my chest
I sense you are different from the rest
Tho, this blood sticks to my skin
Reality is it comes from, within me
You slay me, constantly causing dismay
My heat is shaped for you, As if it is formed of clay
I am loyal to your eyes, I wear a mask
You can see through my disguise, only in the day
At night animal instincts arise, my howls crack the moon
How I yearn for you, I search for you, my heart cries to you
This piece you've given me won't suffice I need all of you
Capture your beauty into my life, forever a picture last
Tho, I dream to bring Kodak to life, if only for a night
When the beast preys on the innocent ones,
When the Sun is gone and the Moon has risen
Cover me in shadows and release night from prision
Endure my afflictions I will, If your willing to wait with me
Wait with me until your realize you love me,
These hues of colors are bright, Yes happiness
Will find us, If you stay with me
Until the waters run cold
The heat from our love
Is left to keep us warm
Just stay with me as the wind spins the daffodils,
And the plot thickens. Stick with me
When all is gone because or love must go on
Even if you don't know it yet.
A Thomas Hawkins Jul 2010
My return doth find me wandering hill and dale.
Ten years have passed from whence I did set sail,
and as I crest the peak of Cotham Hill,
fore my eyes a field of naught but Daffodils.

Their vibrant yellow dazzling the sun.
A fanfare of golden trumpets play as one.
I sit amongst them with no further plans to roam,
for in this spring time field of beauty lies my home.
AJane Dec 2016
I have dug
a hole
near the house
where you live

and lifted
the veins; daffodils
from the soil

they watch
from my window
so tall
and so yellow

A Poetic Romance.


Book I

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

  Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They alway must be with us, or we die.

  Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own vallies: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and ****.

  Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread
A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed
So plenteously all ****-hidden roots
Into o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits.
And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,
Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keep
A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,
Never again saw he the happy pens
Whither his brethren, bleating with content,
Over the hills at every nightfall went.
Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever,
That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever
From the white flock, but pass'd unworried
By angry wolf, or pard with prying head,
Until it came to some unfooted plains
Where fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gains
Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many,
Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,
And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly
To a wide lawn, whence one could only see
Stems thronging all around between the swell
Of turf and slanting branches: who could tell
The freshness of the space of heaven above,
Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a dove
Would often beat its wings, and often too
A little cloud would move across the blue.

  Full in the middle of this pleasantness
There stood a marble altar, with a tress
Of flowers budded newly; and the dew
Had taken fairy phantasies to strew
Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve,
And so the dawned light in pomp receive.
For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fire
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre
Of brightness so unsullied, that therein
A melancholy spirit well might win
Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine
Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine
Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun;
The lark was lost in him; cold springs had run
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass;
Man's voice was on the mountains; and the mass
Of nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold,
To feel this sun-rise and its glories old.

  Now while the silent workings of the dawn
Were busiest, into that self-same lawn
All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped
A troop of little children garlanded;
Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pry
Earnestly round as wishing to espy
Some folk of holiday: nor had they waited
For many moments, ere their ears were sated
With a faint breath of music, which ev'n then
Fill'd out its voice, and died away again.
Within a little space again it gave
Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave,
To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking
Through copse-clad vallies,--ere their death, oer-taking
The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea.

  And now, as deep into the wood as we
Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered light
Fair faces and a rush of garments white,
Plainer and plainer shewing, till at last
Into the widest alley they all past,
Making directly for the woodland altar.
O kindly muse! let not my weak tongue faulter
In telling of this goodly company,
Of their old piety, and of their glee:
But let a portion of ethereal dew
Fall on my head, and presently unmew
My soul; that I may dare, in wayfaring,
To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing.

  Leading the way, young damsels danced along,
Bearing the burden of a shepherd song;
Each having a white wicker over brimm'd
With April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd,
A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks
As may be read of in Arcadian books;
Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe,
When the great deity, for earth too ripe,
Let his divinity o'er-flowing die
In music, through the vales of Thessaly:
Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground,
And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound
With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these,
Now coming from beneath the forest trees,
A venerable priest full soberly,
Begirt with ministring looks: alway his eye
Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept,
And after him his sacred vestments swept.
From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white,
Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light;
And in his left he held a basket full
Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull:
Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still
Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill.
His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath,
Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth
Of winter ****. Then came another crowd
Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud
Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd,
Up-followed by a multitude that rear'd
Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car,
Easily rolling so as scarce to mar
The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown:
Who stood therein did seem of great renown
Among the throng. His youth was fully blown,
Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown;
And, for those simple times, his garments were
A chieftain king's: beneath his breast, half bare,
Was hung a silver bugle, and between
His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen.
A smile was on his countenance; he seem'd,
To common lookers on, like one who dream'd
Of idleness in groves Elysian:
But there were some who feelingly could scan
A lurking trouble in his nether lip,
And see that oftentimes the reins would slip
Through his forgotten hands: then would they sigh,
And think of yellow leaves, of owlets cry,
Of logs piled solemnly.--Ah, well-a-day,
Why should our young Endymion pine away!

  Soon the assembly, in a circle rang'd,
Stood silent round the shrine: each look was chang'd
To sudden veneration: women meek
Beckon'd their sons to silence; while each cheek
Of ****** bloom paled gently for slight fear.
Endymion too, without a forest peer,
Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face,
Among his brothers of the mountain chase.
In midst of all, the venerable priest
Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least,
And, after lifting up his aged hands,
Thus spake he: "Men of Latmos! shepherd bands!
Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks:
Whether descended from beneath the rocks
That overtop your mountains; whether come
From vallies where the pipe is never dumb;
Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs
Blue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furze
Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious charge
Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge,
Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlorn
By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn:
Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare
The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air;
And all ye gentle girls who foster up
Udderless lambs, and in a little cup
Will put choice honey for a favoured youth:
Yea, every one attend! for in good truth
Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan.
Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than
Night-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plains
Speckled with countless fleeces? Have not rains
Green'd over April's lap? No howling sad
Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had
Great bounty from Endymion our lord.
The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd
His early song against yon breezy sky,
That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity."

  Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire
Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire;
Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod
With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god.
Now while the earth was drinking it, and while
Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile,
And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright
'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light
Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang:

  "O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;
Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;
And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken
The dreary melody of bedded reeds--
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx--do thou now,
By thy love's milky brow!
By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
Hear us, great Pan!

  "O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles
Passion their voices cooingly '**** myrtles,
What time thou wanderest at eventide
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side
Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom
Broad leaved fig trees even now foredoom
Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted bees
Their golden honeycombs; our village leas
Their fairest-blossom'd beans and poppied corn;
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,
To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries
Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies
Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding year
All its completions--be quickly near,
By every wind that nods the mountain pine,
O forester divine!

  "Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies
For willing service; whether to surprise
The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit;
Or upward ragged precipices flit
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw;
Or by mysterious enticement draw
Bewildered shepherds to their path again;
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main,
And gather up all fancifullest shells
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping;
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,
The while they pelt each other on the crown
With silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown--
By all the echoes that about thee ring,
Hear us, O satyr king!

  "O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears,
While ever and anon to his shorn peers
A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,
When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn
Anger our huntsman: Breather round our farms,
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms:
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,
That come a swooning over hollow grounds,
And wither drearily on barren moors:
Dread opener of the mysterious doors
Leading to universal knowledge--see,
Great son of Dryope,
The many that are come to pay their vows
With leaves about their brows!

  Be still the unimaginable lodge
For solitary thinkings; such as dodge
Conception to the very bourne of heaven,
Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven,
That spreading in this dull and clodded earth
Gives it a touch ethereal--a new birth:
Be still a symbol of immensity;
A firmament reflected in a sea;
An element filling the space between;
An unknown--but no more: we humbly screen
With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending,
And giving out a shout most heaven rending,
Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean,
Upon thy Mount Lycean!

  Even while they brought the burden to a close,
A shout from the whole multitude arose,
That lingered in the air like dying rolls
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals
Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine.
Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine,
Young companies nimbly began dancing
To the swift treble pipe, and humming string.
Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly
To tunes forgotten--out of memory:
Fair creatures! whose young children's children bred
Thermopylæ its heroes--not yet dead,
But in old marbles ever beautiful.
High genitors, unconscious did they cull
Time's sweet first-fruits--they danc'd to weariness,
And then in quiet circles did they press
The hillock turf, and caught the latter end
Of some strange history, potent to send
A young mind from its ****** tenement.
Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent
On either side; pitying the sad death
Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
Of Zephyr slew him,--Zephyr penitent,
Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,
Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain.
The archers too, upon a wider plain,
Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft,
And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raft
Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top,
Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelope
Those who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling knee
And frantic gape of lonely Niobe,
Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely young
Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue
Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip,
And very, very deadliness did nip
Her motherly cheeks. Arous'd from this sad mood
By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd,
Uplifting his strong bow into the air,
Many might after brighter visions stare:
After the Argonauts, in blind amaze
Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways,
Until, from the horizon's vaulted side,
There shot a golden splendour far and wide,
Spangling those million poutings of the brine
With quivering ore: 'twas even an awful shine
From the exaltation of Apollo's bow;
A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe.
Who thus were ripe for high contemplating,
Might turn their steps towards the sober ring
Where sat Endymion and the aged priest
'**** shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increas'd
The silvery setting of their mortal star.
There they discours'd upon the fragile bar
That keeps us from our homes ethereal;
And what our duties there: to nightly call
Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather;
To summon all the downiest clouds together
For the sun's purple couch; to emulate
In ministring the potent rule of fate
With speed of fire-tailed exhalations;
To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons
Sweet poesy by moonlight: besides these,
A world of other unguess'd offices.
Anon they wander'd, by divine converse,
Into Elysium; vieing to rehearse
Each one his own anticipated bliss.
One felt heart-certain that he could not miss
His quick gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs,
Where every zephyr-sigh pouts and endows
Her lips with music for the welcoming.
Another wish'd, mid that eternal spring,
To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails,
Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales:
Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind,
And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind;
And, ever after, through those regions be
His messenger, his little
Aaron Combs Mar 2015
This, this garden I made you, the garden of flowers,
I hope you might find strength through them.
On the right, the bees work to find it's honey,
and the daffodils on the left are still so blue.
The lilies by the small creek, and the rows of many flowers
stand in every color. The green-leafed willow I planted
holds them underneath the red sky.

My heart fades, my strength fails,
but your soul, like this, is a garden ever-beautiful.

Your lips are apple blossoms, and your hair falls like the breeze
of the morning.  Your kindness, like a hot shower
after a full day of work, you are so sweet, kind.
You take care of the weak, and do all that is good.
Like a mysterious tree in the garden,
                             You stand beautifully.

Now many things stretch for mystery and desire in the world,
but my bride, my bride, my beautiful bride, you set them all free.
My second poem, Enjoy! Encourage hearts and  comments, goal is 200. Can you contribute to my goal?
Zach Jan 2019
I think of friends as trees, growing to and from one another, but you grew all by yourself.
You had scars and scratches on the bark. Your leaves hit the light like no other tree did. Our branches grew out to the same sun.

I think of a garden when i think of you, i think of strong stone pathways, crossing carefully through flowerbeds of secrets, laughter, and long face-time calls. Whenever we walked through that garden together, i counted every step and i watched every flower sprout carefully. I would water them and you would make sure they got enough sunlight, you always insisted on carrying the watering can. I carried the shovel high on my shoulder, it was heavy but i didn’t mind, the shovel was shiny and sharp.  

I remember sharing secrets with the snapdragons, the way we danced next to the daffodils, how we laughed with the lilacs, cried behind the carnations, how we imagined new lives beneath the irises.

I’ll never forget the way your boots squeaked when you threaded through our garden. I always loved the way they sounded, i never told you though. You always say i pay too much attention to things.

We both hated leaving the garden, but we knew we would come back the next day, we always did.

Sometimes people wanted to see our garden.

We didn’t want people in our garden, but we weren’t rude hosts. We showed them the snapdragons, the daffodils, the lilacs, the carnations, and even the irises. He didn’t think the lilacs were the right color purple yet and she didn’t know we even grew carnations and they all insulted the irises.

But we didn’t mind.

They wanted to plant their own seeds in our garden. But it wasn’t theirs.

Our garden had grown. Plant life filled the fields, flowers bloomed bolus petals, fruit was ripening trees were treacherously tall, there was color. I liked blue. Your favorite was green. I liked green.

One day it stormed. It didn’t rain. Rain was good. It stormed. It boomed and it clapped and it roared. I was scared but you weren’t. I wasn’t scared.

Things were different after the storm.

When we came back. The fence had fallen down. Fruits were bruised. Vegetables were browned. Trees had branches snapped off. Flowers were wilted. The soil was flooded. But the stone remained untouched.

You didn’t water the daffodils but i didn’t mind i just stepped on the snapdragons but you didn’t like that.

Flowers started wilting but you couldn’t see it from the outside. We forgot to water them. We said we would remind each other, but we didn’t come back to the garden as much.

And this time we came back you didn’t want to carry the watering can. I even watered them this time. Sometimes you took the shovel, but you dragged it on the ground. It chipped the stone but you said we would fix it later.

We couldn’t fix it. Hell, we didn’t even try.

This time we sulked by the snapdragons, we determined damage next to the daffodils, we loathed the lilacs, we cut the carnations, we still imagined new lives by the irises.

Your boots didn’t squeak the same. I could barely stand it anymore.

By now we both stopped coming to the garden together. You left before I saw you.
I started seeing you in other places. You dressed differently in other places.

Your hair no longer kisses your shoulders. It’s tied back tight.
You wear jeans with patches covering holes in which only I know exist.
Your eyes are locked like the gates.
Your boots don’t even squeak anymore.

I still go to the garden alone
I don’t know if you come anymore
But i never harvest the crops we planted together.
I leave the gate unlocked.

I think of friends as trees, growing to and from one another. But your ax cries bullets. And our trees grow outward to two different suns.
A Castillo Apr 2014
The bag exhales its emptiness.
It has run out of things to give,
only a few husks.

I prop my hand under my chin.

My darling puts her kit on the table
and strings the kernels through.
There were all shades of yellow #5.

America's #1 Finest!

She puts them round her neck,
glistening in tv-light,
that nacreous shell of a necklace.

The white noise plays on.

They start to burst, each one of them,
into a different kind of flower—
daffodils, dandelions, daisies—
it was quite a piece.

My hands are so close now, trembling,
and I am hungry.

The white noise plays on.

Quickly I ****** at them, ****** into her,
And my hand comes out empty,
only a few husks.

The petals scatter slowly around us.

The bright, yellow sun is crashing,
And so, too, does that crumpled bag
Into the trash, above which hung

My heavy heart, my sweet
And her finest around her neck.

I prop my hand under my chin again.
heads of golden yellow stem so green and bright
standing up so tall standing so upright
glowing in the sun in the early dawn
sat there on display in the early morn.

even in the boxes of the window sill
this lovely springtime flower the golden daffodil
such a sight  to see such a lovely thing
just to see the daffodils in the early spring.
heads of golden yellow stem so green and bright
standing up so tall standing so upright.

glowing in the sun in the early dawn
sat there on display in the early morn.

even in the boxes of the window sill
this lovely springtime flower the golden daffodil.

such a sight  to see such a lovely thing
just to see the daffodils in the early spring
in february when there should be frost
bright daffodils present in yellow bloom
such firm rejection of the winter gloom

it makes me smile not all the past is lost
and there are things that death will not consume
in february when there should be frost

we look on beauty and don't count the cost
of what it means to have full life resume
but take each step and see beyond the doom
in february when there should be frost
Nandini Aug 2014
Stranger I have roads in my eyes ,
The cement lies wet in solitude
Your footprints it waits to imprint

I robbed the sun from the world
In my eyes the sunflowers turn to him

On the sides I planted
Honeydew and daffodils
Their fragrance bids goodbye
to linger on my window sills

Come stranger visit them someday
While you resist your world to be on my way
Some lines I spilled thinking about the strange times ...
betterdays Dec 2014
as the rain slides  down
the window pane
and the moondrifts from
cloud to cloud

i remember my first

who tooks his smalls
home to be washed by
his mother,
who was fastidious about
trimming his ginger...brown
beard, but not so fastidious
in cleaning the sink...
the owner of Muffin, the budgeriagar who survived
being vaccumed up once,
but not twice....
Jerome, full of gay angst
and closeted pride...
who taught me...
love is not an animal
that can be leashed
but is a thing,
of wild untamed beauty...

Jerome....who gave love
in buckets and bunches
of floppy daffodils...

i lost him as a friend, many
years past......but some nights drear and dark
he pops say cheerio
late nite wine and sad thoughts....
Poemasabi Apr 2013
At a new home, warm air and sun bring forth random daffodils
pluie d'été Jul 2014
you forgot the ***
of daffodils
that i gave you
in autumn

and by winter
their soul
had gone
next year

their flowers
hung yellow
like tissue paper
and when the breeze
stirred them
they were dragged
by wilted stems

and drew lines
in the dust
Peter J Thomas Mar 2016
The yellow yawn of daffodils,

Sing proud the dawn of Spring,

A coloured flash,

Through fields we dash,

True beauty that they bring.
Ottar Mar 2013
A pair of daffodils on a single stem,
Had fallen from the bunch, their
shared stalk too short, it really wasn't
much of a flower anyway, but
instead of throwing it down
on the ground
or away...

I found a hole
in the dirt
grass and the curb
And I placed it, on a lark,
for a laugh, but time has passed
3 weeks and the pair are alive, and doing well.

Only a stem, no roots, cold, moist dirt
showed me that even a flower was worth
second chance!

So, if a flower proves this, then all of LIFE;
deserves a dance and a full measure of grace.

— The End —