Flowers are little miracles of the world with their sweet beauty and fragrance that evoke all our senses.
We have all heard of the most famous poem of all that starts with ” Roses Are Red”- “Violets Are Blue” the origins of the poem can be traced as far back to 1590 by Sir Edmund Spense and later in 1784 made famous by Gammer Gurton’s Garland:
The rose is red, the violet’s blue,
The honey’s sweet, and so are you.
Thou are my love and I am thine;
I drew thee to my Valentine:
The lot was cast and then I drew,
And Fortune said it shou’d be you.
Poems about flowers have been written for centuries there is nothing in this world as poets say more beautiful than a flower. Let us all today develop insight on the artful communication of flowers with these top 5 flower poems.
They are autographs of angels, penned
In Nature’s green-leaved book, in blended tints,
Borrowed from rainbows and the sunset skies,
And written everywhere–on plain and hill,
In lonely dells, ‘mid crowded haunts of men;
On the broad prairies, where no eye save God’s
May read their silent, sacred mysteries. Thank God for flowers!
They gladden human hearts; Seraphic breathings part their fragrant lips
With whisperings of Heaven.
You write to me about roses,
About roses opening as roses die.
Always, you say, there are roses,
So that people get used to them
And cease to wonder.
Now I am on a hilltop,
Bare, with a few pine trees
Twisted by an inexhaustible wind,
By a wind that is never tired,
A wind that passes and passes and is never gone.
I cannot think what it would be like for the pine trees
If there were no wind.
Your roses would not be happy on my hilltop.
They would be scornful of my huckleberry bushes
With their plain, blue fruit.
They would not care for the white meadow-sweet
That leans against a rock.
Roses must have rich soil,
And careful pruning.
They must be sheltered from the wind and cold
And have stakes to lean upon.
They do not stand alone like the flames of vervain
On my windy hilltop.
Roses are gifts for lovers.
Lovers have always had much to say about roses.
When you sent me a rose
Folded in a letter,
Did you know I would open it on a hilltop
Where the wind searches me
As it does the pine trees
And my skirts are brushing
The fine flame of the vervain?
– Louise Driscoll
3: To the Flowers
Bright little day stars
Scattered all over the earth,
Ye drape the house of mourning
And ye deck the hall of mirth.
Ye are gathered to grace the ballroom,
Ye are borne to the house of prayer,
Ye wither upon the snowy shroud,
Ye fade in the bride’s jeweled hair.
Ye are relics of bygone ages,
From Eden inherited,
To gladden the homes of the living,
And mourn on the graves of the dead.
-Martha Lavinia Hoffman
4: Delicate but Captivating
Vibrant, beautiful, and full of life.
She radiates positive energy while
she absorbs the warm rays and brightness of the sun
reflecting her image with purity, passion, and love.
When drizzled with a little rain it begins to tickle with delight
and blooms into a confident, vivacious flower.
It will stand up Tall amongst million of flowers with confidence
and humility above all.
It takes a special gardener to nurture his find, as he
knows that beauty so rare and precious will continue to
to blossom given the love, time, and affection it truly deserves.
He knows to cultivate it and treasure it so
it becomes his utmost valuable treasure.
Keeping her seeds from drifting to another garden
will forever be his challenge and commitment to
that once a delicate flower, but now a radiant and captivating woman.
God’s greatest creation!
-Lissette Alvarez Napoli
5: I Will Go Out and Look at the Flowers
There was one of my kin (of another day)
When the Riddle of Life defied her powers,
And her fretted heart rebelled, would say,
“I will go out and look at the flowers.”
And after a while–like those who had quaffed
Of the cup that Helen distilled in her bowers,
Returned from the garden, she softly laughed–
“I have been out to look at the flowers!”
My heart is so ill with the growth of ills
The world is sheaving, these harvest hours–
The sword that smites, and the shell that kills,
While Life lies charred ‘neath the burning towers!
Nothing to do–it will be as Who wills?
Helpless to aid, how my hurt soul cowers!…
Let me drink of the cup that pure Beauty distills–
I will go out and look at the flowers!
-Edith Matilda Thomas