36 Greatest Poems About Flowers

Flowers symbolize many things. It is used to show love, longing, death, and beauty. The thing I like the most is when someone uses it to express genuine love towards other people. We all deserve to receive flowers at some point in our lives, and I hope someday, someone will give me that kind of flower too.

These are thirty-six (36) greatest poems about flowers. If you once received a flower from someone important to you or if you’re just like me who is still waiting, these poems are for you.

Keep reading!

The Flower

Once in a golden hour
I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower,
The people said, a weed.

To and fro they went
Thro’ my garden bower,
And muttering discontent
Cursed me and my flower.

Then it grew so tall
It wore a crown of light,
But thieves from o’er the wall
Stole the seed by night.

Sow’d it far and wide
By every town and tower,
Till all the people cried,
“Splendid is the flower!”

Read my little fable:
He that runs may read.
Most can raise the flowers now,
For all have got the seed.

And some are pretty enough,
And some are poor indeed;
And now again the people
Call it but a weed.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Flower-Angels

Of old, with goodwill from the skies–
God’s message to them given–
The angels came, a glad surprise,
And went again to heaven.

But now the angels are grown rare,
Needed no more as then;
Far lowlier messengers can bear
God’s goodwill unto men.

Each year, the snowdrops’ pallid dawn
Breaks from the earth below;
Light spreads, till, from the dark updrawn,
The noontide roses glow.

The snowdrops first–the dawning gray;
Then out the roses burn!
They speak their word, grow dim–away
To holy dust return.

Of oracles were little dearth,
Should heaven continue dumb;
From lowliest corners of the earth
God’s messages will come.

In thy face his we see, O Lord,
And are no longer blind;
Need not so much his rarer word,
In flowers even read his mind.

George MacDonald

The Flower Boat

The Fisherman’s swapping a yarn for a yarn
Under the hand of the village barber,
And here in the angle of house and barn
His deep-sea dory has found a harbor.

At anchor she rides the sunny sod
As full to the gunnel with flowers a-growing
As ever she turned her home with cod
From George’s Bank when winds were blowing.

And I know from that Elysian freight
She will brave but once more the Atlantic weather,
When dory and fisherman sail by fate
To seek for the Happy Isles together.

Robert Lee Frost


Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers,
Or solitary mere,
Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers
Its waters to the weir!

Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and worry
Of spindle and of loom,
And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry
And rushing of the flame.

Born in the purple, born to joy and pleasance,
Thou dost not toil nor spin,
But makest glad and radiant with thy presence
The meadow and the lin.

The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner,
And round thee throng and run
The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor,
The outlaws of the sun.

The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant,
And tilts against the field,
And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent
With steel-blue mail and shield.

Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest,
Who, armed with golden rod
And winged with the celestial azure, bearest
The message of some God.

Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities
Hauntest the sylvan streams,
Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties
That come to us as dreams.

O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river
Linger to kiss thy feet!
O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever
The world more fair and sweet.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A Flower Garden – At Coleorton Hall, Leicestershire.

Tell me, ye Zephyrs! that unfold,
While fluttering o’er this gay Recess,
Pinions that fanned the teeming mould
Of Eden’s blissful wilderness,
Did only softly-stealing hours
There close the peaceful lives of flowers?

Say, when the ‘moving’ creatures saw
All kinds commingled without fear,
Prevailed a like indulgent law
For the still growths that prosper here?
Did wanton fawn and kid forbear
The half-blown rose, the lily spare?

Or peeped they often from their beds
And prematurely disappeared,
Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads
A bosom to the sun endeared?
If such their harsh untimely doom,
It falls not ‘here’ on bud or bloom.

All summer long the happy Eve
Of this fair Spot her flowers may bind,
Nor e’er, with ruffled fancy, grieve,
From the next glance she casts, to find
That love for little things by Fate
Is rendered vain as love for great.

Yet, where the guardian fence is wound,
So subtly are our eyes beguiled
We see not nor suspect a bound,
No more than in some forest wild;
The sight is free as air or crost
Only by art in nature lost.

And, though the jealous turf refuse
By random footsteps to be prest,
And feed on never-sullied dews,
‘Ye’, gentle breezes from the west,
With all the ministers of hope
Are tempted to this sunny slope!

And hither throngs of birds resort;
Some, inmates lodged in shady nests,
Some, perched on stems of stately port
That nod to welcome transient guests;
While hare and leveret, seen at play,
‘Appear’ not more shut out than they.

Apt emblem (for reproof of pride)
This delicate Enclosure shows
Of modest kindness, that would hide
The firm protection she bestows;
Of manners, like its viewless fence,
Ensuring peace to innocence.

Thus spake the moral Muse her wing
Abruptly spreading to depart,
She left that farewell offering,
Memento for some docile heart;
That may respect the good old age
When Fancy was Truth’s willing Page;
And Truth would skim the flowery glade,
Though entering but as Fancy’s Shade.

William Wordsworth

Flower Gathering

I left you in the morning,
And in the morning glow,
You walked a way beside me
To make me sad to go.
Do you know me in the gloaming,
Gaunt and dusty gray with roaming?
Are you dumb because you know me not,
Or dumb because you know?

All for me And not a question
For the faded flowers gay
That could take me from beside you
For the ages of a day?
They are yours, and be the measure
Of their worth for you to treasure,
The measure of the little while
That I’ve been long away.

Robert Lee Frost

A Flower Given To My Daughter

Frail the white rose and frail are
Her hands that gave
Whose soul is sere and paler
Than time’s wan wave.

Rosefrail and fair, yet frailest
A wonder wild
In gentle eyes thou veilest,
My blueveined child.

James Joyce

Flower In The Crannied Wall

Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower—but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.

lfred Lord Tennyson

The Flower Of Liberty

What flower is this that greets the morn,
Its hues from Heaven so freshly born?
With burning star and flaming band
It kindles all the sunset land
Oh tell us what its name may be, –
Is this the Flower of Liberty?
It is the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!

In savage Nature’s far abode
Its tender seed our fathers sowed;
The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud,
Its opening leaves were streaked with blood,
Till Lo! earth’s tyrants shook to see
The full-blown Flower of Liberty
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!

Behold its streaming rays unite,
One mingling flood of braided light, –
The red that fires the Southern rose,
With spotless white from Northern snows,
And, spangled o’er its azure, see
The sister Stars of Liberty!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!

The blades of heroes fence it round,
Where’er it springs is holy ground;
From tower and dome its glories spread;
It waves where lonely sentries tread;
It makes the land as ocean free,
And plants an empire on the sea!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!

Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom’s flower,
Shall ever float on dome and tower,
To all their heavenly colors true,
In blackening frost or crimson dew, –
And God love us as we love thee,
Thrice holy Flower of Liberty!
Then hail the banner of the free,

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Flower Of Love

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault
was, had I not been made of common clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed
yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had
struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled
with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the
kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on
that verdant and enamelled mead.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw
the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,
as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned
me, who am crownless now and without name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling
on the threshold of the House of Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the
oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the
lyre’s strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out
the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,
clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms
brush the burnished bosom of the dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would
have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion,
known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as
we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by
the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered
petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you – ah!
what else had I a boy to do, –
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the
silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and
when once the storm of youth is past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death
the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure,
for the blindworm battens on the root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree
of Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you?
God’s own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an
argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my
poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better
than the poet’s crown of bays.

Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde

A Flower Of The Fields

Bee-Bitten in the orchard hung
The peach; or, fallen in the weeds,
Lay rotting, where still sucked and sung
The gray bee, boring to its seed’s
Pink pulp and honey blackly stung.

The orchard-path, which led around
The garden, with its heat one twinge
Of dinning locusts, picket-bound
And ragged, brought me where one hinge
Held up the gate that scraped the ground.

All seemed the same: the martin-box
Sun-warped with pigmy balconies
Still stood, with all its twittering flocks,
Perched on its pole above the peas
And silvery-seeded onion-stocks.

The clove-pink and the rose; the clump
Of coppery sunflowers, with the heat
Sick to the heart: the garden stump,
Red with geranium-pots, arid sweet
With moss and ferns, this side the pump.

I rested, with one hesitant hand
Upon the gate. The lonesome day,
Droning with insects, made the land
One dry stagnation. Soaked with hay
And scents of weeds the hot wind fanned.

I breathed the sultry scents, my eyes
Parched as my lips. And yet I felt
My limbs were ice. As one who flies
To some wild woe. How sleepy smelt
The hay-sweet heat that soaked the skies!

Noon nodded; dreamier, lonesomer
For one long, plaintive, forest-side
Bird-quaver. And I knew me near
Some heartbreak anguish.. . She had died.
I felt it, and no need to hear!

I passed the quince and pear-tree; where,
All up the porch, a grape-vine trails
How strange that fruit, whatever air
Or earth it grows in, never fails
To find its native flavour there!

And she was as a flower, too,
That grows its proper bloom and scent
No matter what the soil: she, who,
Born better than her place, still lent
Grace to the lowliness she knew.. .

They met me at the porch, and were
Sad-eyed with weeping. Then the room
Shut out the country’s heat and purr,
And left light stricken into gloom
So love and I might look on her.

Madison Julius Cawein

A Flower. Painted By Simon Varelst

When famed Varelst this little wonder drew,
Flora vouchsafed the growing works to view;
Finding the painter’s science at a stand,
The goddess snatch’d the pencil from his hand,
And finishing the piece, she smiling said,
Behold one work of mine that ne’er shall fade.

Matthew Prior

A Flower-piece by Fantin

Heart’s ease or pansy, pleasure or thought,
Which would the picture give us of these?
Surely the heart that conceived it sought
Heart’s ease.

Surely by glad and divine degrees
The heart impelling the hand that wrought
Wrought comfort here for a soul’s disease.

Deep flowers, with lustre and darkness fraught,
From glass that gleams as the chill still seas
Lean and lend for a heart distraught
Heart’s ease.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Flower-pieces I. Love Lies Bleeding

Love lies bleeding in the bed whereover
Roses lean with smiling mouths or pleading:
Earth lies laughing where the sun’s dart clove her:
Love lies bleeding.

Stately shine his purple plumes, exceeding
Pride of princes: nor shall maid or lover
Find on earth a fairer sign worth heeding.

Yet may love, sore wounded scarce recover
Strength and spirit again, with life receding:
Hope and joy, wind-winged, about him hover:
Love lies bleeding.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Flower-pieces II. Love in a Mist

Light love in a mist, by the midsummer moon misguided,
Scarce seen in the twilight garden if gloom insist,
Seems vainly to seek for a star whose gleam has derided
Light love in a mist.

All day in the sun, when the breezes do all they list,
His soft blue raiment of cloudlike blossom abided
Unrent and unwithered of winds and of rays that kissed.

Blithe-hearted or sad, as the cloud or the sun subsided,
Love smiled in the flower with a meaning whereof none wist
Save two that beheld, as a gleam that before them glided,
Light love in a mist.

Algernon Charles Swinburne


This nosegay, ’twas I dress’d it,

Greets thee a thousand times!
Oft stoop’d I, and caress’d it,

Ah! full a thousand times,
And ‘gainst my bosom press’d it

A hundred thousand times!

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The Flowering Orchard.

Silk Embroidery.

Lo silken my garden,
and silken my sky,
And silken my apple-boughs
hanging on high;
All wrought by the Worm
in the peasant carle’s cot
On the Mulberry leafage
when summer was hot!

William Morris

The Flowers

Buy my English posies!
Kent and Surrey may,
Violets of the Undercliff
Wet with Channel spray;
Cowslips from a Devon combe,
Midland furze afire,
Buy my English posies
And I’ll sell your heart’s desire!

Buy my English posies!
You that scorn the May,
Won’t you greet a friend from home
Half the world away?
Green against the draggled drift,
Faint and frail but first,
Buy my Northern blood-root
And I’ll know where you were nursed:
Robin down the logging-road whistles, “Come to me!”
Spring has found the maple-grove, the sap is running free.
All the winds of Canada call the ploughing-rain.
Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!

Buy my English posies!
Here’s to match your need,
Buy a tuft of royal heath,
Buy a bunch of weed
White as sand of Muizenberg
Spun before the gale,
Buy my heath and lilies
And I’ll tell you whence you hail!
Under hot Constantia broad the vineyards lie,
Throned and thorned the aching berg props the speckless sky,
Slow below the Wynberg firs trails the tilted wain,
Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!

Buy my English posies!
You that will not turn,
Buy my hot-wood clematis,
Buy a frond o’ fern
Gathered where the Erskine leaps
Down the road to Lorne,
Buy my Christmas creeper
And I’ll say where you were born!
West away from Melbourne dust holidays begin,
They that mock at Paradise woo at Cora Lynn,
Through the great South Otway gums sings the great South Main,
Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!

Buy my English posies!
Here’s your choice unsold!
Buy a blood-red myrtle-bloom,
Buy the kowhai’s gold
Flung for gift on Taupo’s face,
Sign that spring is come,
Buy my clinging myrtle
And I’ll give you back your home!
Broom behind the windy town, pollen of the pine,
Bell-bird in the leafy deep where the ratas twine,
Fern above the saddle-bow, flax upon the plain,
Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!

Buy my English posies!
Ye that have your own
Buy them for a brother’s sake
Overseas, alone!
Weed ye trample underfoot
Floods his heart abrim,
Bird ye never heeded,
Oh, she calls his dead to him!
Far and far our homes are set round the Seven Seas;
Woe for us if we forget, we who hold by these!
Unto each his mother-beach, bloom and bird and land,
Masters of the Seven Seas, oh, love and understand.

Rudyard Kipling

The Flowers

Some flowers are brighter far in hue
Than others by their side,
But God baptizes all with dew,
And spreads His mantle wide
To cover all for half the day,
From rays of scorching sun,
Though some may shine in colors gay,
And some in sober dun.

And I account each one my friend,
The stately and the plain.
Diverse their hue, but not their end;
For me none bloom in vain;
For all proclaim their Maker’s skill,
And point to bloom above;
In God’s great plan their part fulfil,
And whisper “God is love.”

The fragrance lades the summer air
With health-inspiring germs,
Ascend on high as nature’s prayer,
Suggesting well the terms
Of God-accepted prayer from man,
Odors of grateful praise;
For though in penitence began,
It ends in joyful lays.

Joseph Horatio Chant


I will not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly queen,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun; –
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand;
The wolfsbane I should dread;
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,
That always mourns the dead; –
But I will woo the dainty rose,
With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me –
And the daisy’s cheek is tipped with a blush,
She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom’s betroth’d to the bee; –
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.

Thomas Hood

The Flowers

Day after day,
At spring’s return,
I watch my flowers, how they burn
Their lives away.

The candle crocus
And daffodil gold
Drink fire of the sunshine–
Quickly cold.

And the proud tulip–
How red he glows!–
Is quenched ere summer
Can kindle the rose.

Purple as the innermost
Core of a sinking flame,
Deep in the leaves the violets smoulder
To the dust whence they came.

Day after day
At spring’s return,
I watch my flowers, how they burn
Their lives away,
Day after day …

Aldous Leonard Huxley


Thank God I love the Flowers!
Mute voices of the Spring,
That gladden all her bowers
With their varied blossoming;
They weave a charm around them
On each summer dale and bough,
For a Fairy train has bound them
In wreaths upon her brow.

Far up along the mountain,
And in the valleys green,
In the field, and by the fountain,
The smiling ones are seen;
Some looking up to heaven,
With eyes of deepest blue;
Some stooping down at even
To quaff the sparkling dew.

And from them all there speaketh
A language sweet and pure,
Fitted for him who seeketh
A God’s nomenclature.
As tidal pulses thrill the seas,
And moments build the hours,
Heaven breathes her unvoiced mysteries
In sermons from the Flowers.

Charles Sangster

The Flowers.

Ye offspring of the morning sun,
Ye flowers that deck the smiling plain,
Your lives, in joy and bliss begun,
In Nature’s love unchanged remain.
With hues of bright and godlike splendor
Sweet Flora graced your forms so tender,
And clothed ye in a garb of light;
Spring’s lovely children weep forever,
For living souls she gave ye never,
And ye must dwell in endless night?

The nightingale and lark still sing
In your tranced ears the bliss of love;
The toying sylphs, on airy wing,
Around your fragrant bosoms rove,
Of yore, Dione’s daughter twining
In garlands sweet your cup-so shining,
A pillow formed where love might rest!
Spring’s gentle children, mourn forever,
The joys of love she gave ye never,
Ne’er let ye know that feeling blest!

But when ye’re gathered by my hand,
A token of my love to be,
Now that her mother’s harsh command
From Nanny’s sight has banished me
E’en from that passing touch ye borrow
Those heralds mute of pleasing sorrow,
Life, language, hearts and souls divine;
And to your silent leaves ’tis given,
By Him who mightiest is in heaven,
His glorious Godhead to enshrine.

Friedrich Schiller


The daisy scatter’d on each mead and down,
A golden tuft within a silver crown;
(Fair fall that dainty flower! and may there be
No shepherd grac’d that doth not honour thee!)
The primrose, when with six leaves gotten grace
Maids as a true-love in their bosoms place;
The spotless lily, by whose pure leaves be
Noted the chaste thoughts of virginity;
Carnations sweet with colour like the fire,
The fit impresas for inflam’d desire;
The harebell for her stainless azur’d hue
Claims to be worn of none but those are true;
The rose, like ready youth, enticing stands,
And would be cropp’d if it might choose the hands,
The yellow kingcup Flora them assign’d
To be the badges of a jealous mind;
The orange-tawny marigold: the night
Hides not her colour from a searching sight….
The columbine in tawny often taken,
Is then ascrib’d to such as are forsaken;
Flora’s choice buttons of a russet dye
Is hope even in the depth of misery.

From Britannia’s Pastorals.

William Browne


Oh, why for us the blighted bloom!
The blossom that lies withering!
The Master of Life’s changeless loom
Hath wrought for us no changeless thing.

Where grows the rose of fadeless Grace?
Wherethrough the Spirit manifests
The fact of an immortal race,
The dream on which religion rests.

Where buds the lily of our Faith?
That grows for us in unknown wise,
Out of the barren dust of death,
The pregnant bloom of Paradise.

In Heaven! so near that flowers know!
That flowers see how near! – and thus
Reflect the knowledge here below
Of love and life unknown to us.

Madison Julius Cawein

Flowers And Stars.

“Beloved! thou’rt gazing with thoughtful look
On those flowers of brilliant hue,
Blushing in spring tide freshness and bloom,
Glittering with diamond dew:
What dost thou read in each chalice fair,
And what does each blossom say?
Do they not tell thee, my peerless one,
Thou’rt lovelier far than they?”

“Not so – not so, but they whisper low
That quickly will fade their bloom;
Soon will they withered lie on the sod,
Ravished of all perfume;
They tell that youth and beauty below
Are doomed, alas! to decay,
And I, like them, in life’s flower and prime
May pass from this earth away.”

“Too sad thy thoughts! Look up at yon stars,
That gleam in the sapphire skies;
Not clearer their radiance, best beloved,
Than the light of thine own dark eyes!
With no thoughts of death or sad decay,
Can they thy young spirit fill;
Through ages they’ve shone with changeless light,
And yet they are shining still!”

“Ah! they bring before my spirit’s gaze
Dreams of that home so blessed,
Where those who have served the Master well
At length from their labors rest;
And do not chide if, despite all ties,
Of close-clinging earthly love,
There are times when I turn a wistful glance
To that distant home above.”

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Flowers By A Grave

Alien blossoms! tell me why
Seek ye such a lonely place,
Thus to bloom, and droop, and die
Far away from all your race?

Wherefore, from the sunny bowers
Where your beauteous kindred bloom,
Have ye come, O banished flowers!
Thus to decorate a tomb?

“Mortal, dost thou question why
Thus beside the grave we bloom?
Why we hither come to die,
Aliens from our garden-home?

“‘Twas Affection’s gentle hand
Placed us thus her dead so near; –
Tis at weeping Love’s command
That we breathe our fragrance here.

“Ask not why we wither here,
Thou who ne’er hast tasted woe,
Who hast never felt the tear
Of bereaved affection flow, –

“Ask not, till thy household band
By death’s cruel stroke is riven,
Till some bright bird’scapes thy hand –
Then thy answer will be given!”

Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Flowers, dear flowers, farewell!

“We are sending you, dear flowers,
Forth alone to die,
Where your gentle sisters may not weep
O’er the cold graves where you lie;
But you go to bring them fadeless life
In the bright homes where they dwell,
And you softly smile that ‘t is so,
As we sadly sing farewell.

O plead with gentle words for us,
And whisper tenderly
Of generous love to that cold heart,
And it will answer ye;
And though you fade in a dreary home,
Yet loving hearts will tell
Of the joy and peace that you have given:
Flowers, dear flowers, farewell!”

Louisa May Alcott

Flowers For Brave Soldiers

Flowers for brave soldiers,
Flowers for those who gave us
A Country undivided.
Flowers for the dead!

With flags we are marking
Their last earth-dwelling.
Our hearts are bending
In gratitude,
While we are praying
That this our Nation
Pass safe through peril,
Through deadly war.

Flowers for brave soldiers –
Flowers for those who loved us,
Flowers to their memory,
This fair spring day!

Helen Leah Reed

Flowers In Winter

Painted Upon a Porte Livre.

How strange to greet, this frosty morn,
In graceful counterfeit of flowers,
These children of the meadows, born
Of sunshine and of showers!

How well the conscious wood retains
The pictures of its flower-sown home,
The lights and shades, the purple stains,
And golden hues of bloom!

It was a happy thought to bring
To the dark season’s frost and rime
This painted memory of spring,
This dream of summer-time.

Our hearts are lighter for its sake,
Our fancy’s age renews its youth,
And dim-remembered fictions take
The guise of, present truth.

A wizard of the Merrimac,
So old ancestral legends say,
Could call green leaf and blossom back
To frosted stem and spray.

The dry logs of the cottage wall,
Beneath his touch, put out their leaves
The clay-bound swallow, at his call,
Played round the icy eaves.

The settler saw his oaken flail
Take bud, and bloom before his eyes;
From frozen pools he saw the pale,
Sweet summer lilies rise.

To their old homes, by man profaned,
Came the sad dryads, exiled long,
And through their leafy tongues complained
Of household use and wrong.

The beechen platter sprouted wild,
The pipkin wore its old-time green
The cradle o’er the sleeping child
Became a leafy screen.

Haply our gentle friend hath met,
While wandering in her sylvan quest,
Haunting his native woodlands yet,
That Druid of the West;

And, while the dew on leaf and flower
Glistened in moonlight clear and still,
Learned the dusk wizard’s spell of power,
And caught his trick of skill.

But welcome, be it new or old,
The gift which makes the day more bright,
And paints, upon the ground of cold
And darkness, warmth and light.

Without is neither gold nor green;
Within, for birds, the birch-logs sing;
Yet, summer-like, we sit between
The autumn and the spring.

The one, with bridal blush of rose,
And sweetest breath of woodland balm,
And one whose matron lips unclose
In smiles of saintly calm.

Fill soft and deep, O winter snow!
The sweet azalea’s oaken dells,
And hide the bank where roses blow,
And swing the azure bells!

O’erlay the amber violet’s leaves,
The purple aster’s brookside home,
Guard all the flowers her pencil gives
A life beyond their bloom.

And she, when spring comes round again,
By greening slope and singing flood
Shall wander, seeking, not in vain,
Her darlings of the wood.

John Greenleaf Whittier

Flowers Of The Dust

The Mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small–
So soft and slow the great wheels go they scarcely move at all;
But the souls of men fall into them and are powdered into dust,
And in that dust grow the Passion-Flowers–Love, Hope, Trust.

Most wondrous their upspringing, in the dust of the Grinding-Mills,
And rare beyond the telling the fragrance each distils.
Some grow up tall and stately, and some grow sweet and small,
But Life out of Death is in each one–with purpose grow they all.

For that dust is God’s own garden, and the Lord Christ tends it fair,
With oh, such loving tenderness! and oh, such patient care!
In sorrow the seeds are planted, they are watered with bitter tears,
But their roots strike down to the Water-Springs and the Sources of the Years.

These flowers of Christ’s own providence, they wither not nor die,
But flourish fair, and fairer still, through all eternity.
In the Dust of the Mills and in travail the amaranth seeds are sown,
But the Flowers in their full beauty climb the Pillars of the Throne.

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Flowers On The Top Of The Pillars At The Entrance Of The Cave

Hope smiled when your nativity was cast,
Children of Summer! Ye fresh Flowers that brave
What Summer here escapes not, the fierce wave,
And whole artillery of the western blast,
Battering the Temple’s front, its long-drawn nave
Smiting, as if each moment were their last.
But ye, bright Flowers on frieze and architrave
Survive, and once again the Pile stands fast:
Calm as the Universe, from specular towers
Of heaven contemplated by Spirits pure
With mute astonishment, it stands sustained
Through every part in symmetry, to endure,
Unhurt, the assault of Time with all his hours,
As the supreme Artificer ordained.

William Wordsworth


SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,
Stars, that in earth’s firmament do shine.

Stars they are, wherein we read our history,
As astrologers and seers of eld;
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,
Like the burning stars which they beheld.

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowerets under us
Stands the revelation of his love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation,
Writ all over this great world of ours,
Making evident our own creation,
In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.

And the poet, faithful and far-seeing,
Sees alike, in stars and flowers, a part
Of the self-same, universal being
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,
Buds that open only to decay;

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gayly in the golden light;
Large desires, with most uncertain issues,
Tender wishes, blossoming at night;

These in flowers and men are more than seeming;
Workings are they of the self-same powers
Which the poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing—
Some, like stars, to tell us Spring is born;
Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflowing,
Stand, like Ruth, amid the golden corn;

Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing,
And in Summer’s green emblazoned field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield;

Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
On the mountain-top, and by the brink
Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,
Not on graves of bird and beast alone,
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant;
In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,
Speaking of the Past unto the Present,
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers.

In all places, then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection,
We behold their tender buds expand—
Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Use of Flowers

GOD might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,
The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,
Without a flower at all.
We might have had enough, enough
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine, and toil,
And yet have had no flowers.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow light,
All fashioned with supremest grace,
Upspringing day and night:—
Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains high,
And in the silent wilderness
Where no man passes by?

Our outward life requires them not,—
Then wherefore had they birth?—
To minister delight to man,
To beautify the earth;
To comfort man,—to whisper hope,
Whene’er his faith is dim,
For who so careth for the flowers
Will care much more for him!

Mary Howitt

Hymn to the Flowers

DAY-STARS! that ope your frownless eyes to twinkle
From rainbow galaxies of earth’s creation,
And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle
As a libation.

Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly
Before the uprisen sun, God’s lidless eye,
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy
Incense on high.

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty
The floor of Nature’s temple tessellate,
What numerous emblems of instructive duty
Your forms create!

’Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth
And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth
A call to prayer.

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand,
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,
Which God hath planned;

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply;
Its choir the wings and waves, its organ thunder,
Its dome the sky.

There, as in solitude and shade I wander
Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod,
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder
The ways of God,

Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preachers,
Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book,
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers
From loneliest nook.

Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor
“Weep without woe, and blush without a crime,”
O, may I deeply learn, and ne’er surrender
Your lore sublime!

“Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory,
Arrayed,” the lilies cry, “in robes like ours!
How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory
Are human flowers!”

In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist,
With which thou paintest Nature’s wide-spread hall,
What a delightful lesson thou impartest
Of love to all!

Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure;
Blooming o’er field and wave, by day and night,
From every source your sanction bids me treasure
Harmless delight.

Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary
For such a world of thought could furnish scope?
Each fading calyx a memento mori,
Yet fount of hope.

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection!
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth,
Ye are to me a type of resurrection
And second birth.

Were I in churchless solitudes remaining,
Far from all voice of teachers and divines,
My soul would find, in flowers of God’s ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines!

Horace Smith

The Life of Flowers

WHEN hath wind or rain
Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me,
And I (however they might bluster round)
Walkt off? ’T were most ungrateful; for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And ’t is and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die
(Whene’er their Genius bids their souls depart)
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet’s head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold.

Walter Savage Landor

So, here is the greatest compilation of poems about flowers

Let me know which one is your favorite! ;).


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