Language of Flowers by Kate Greenaway (good books to read for 12 year olds TXT) 📕

having prayed 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 any thing.
We die,
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer's rain,
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.
Robert Herrick. CONSTANCY. Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens willow branches bear;
Say, I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!
Samuel Fletcher. Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens,
Wi' toddlin din,
Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin.

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,
In scented bow'rs;
Ye roses on your thorny tree.
The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed,
I' th' rustling gale,
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade,
Come join my wail.

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year;
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head,
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear,
For him that's dead!

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air
The roaring blast,
Wide o'er the naked world declare
The worth we've lost!
Burns. TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. Ppansies, Lilies, King-cups, Daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are Violets,
They will have a place in story;
There's a flower that shall be mine,
'Tis the little Celandine.

Ere a leaf is on the bush,
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about her nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless prodigal;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we've little warmth, or none.

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly unassuming spirit!
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane—there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.

Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien,
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth,
Ill requited upon earth;
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Serving at my heart's command,
Tasks that are no tasks renewing;
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!
Wordsworth. TO BLOSSOMS. Ffair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile.
And go at last.

What, were you born to be,
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read, how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile, they glide
Into the grave.
Herrick. THE LILY AND THE ROSE. The nymph must lose her female friend,
If more admired than she—
But where will fierce contention end,
If flowers can disagree.

Within the garden's peaceful scene
Appear'd two lovely foes,
Aspiring to the rank of queen,
The Lily and the Rose.

The Rose soon redden'd into rage,
And, swelling with disdain,
Appeal'd to many a poet's page
To prove her right to reign.

The Lily's height bespoke command,
A fair imperial flower;
She seem'd designed for Flora's hand,
The sceptre of her power.

This civil bick'ring and debate
The goddess chanced to hear,
And flew to save, ere yet too late,
The pride of the parterre.

Yours is, she said, the nobler hue,
And yours the statelier mien;
And, till a third surpasses you,
Let each be deemed a queen.

Thus, soothed and reconciled, each seeks
The fairest British fair:
The seat of empire is her cheeks,
They reign united there.
Cowper. THE WALL-FLOWER. Why this flower is now called so,
List, sweet maids, and you shall know.
Understand this firstling was
Once a brisk and bonny lass,
Kept as close as Danae was,
Who a sprightly springald loved;
And to have it fully proved,
Up she got upon a wall,
'Tempting down to slide withal;
But the silken twist untied,
So she fell, and, bruised, she died.
Jove, in pity of the deed,
And her loving, luckless speed,
Turn'd her to this plant we call
Now "the flower of the wall."
Herrick. THE PRIMROSE. Ask me why I send you here,
This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you
This Primrose all bepearled with dew;
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are washed with tears.

Ask me why this flower doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending, yet it doth not break;
I must tell you, these discover
What doubts and fears are in a lover.
Carew. ADONIS SLEEPING, In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth
Of fondest beauty. Sideway his face reposed
On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed,
By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth
To slumbery pout; just as the morning south
Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head,
Four lily stalks did their white honours wed
To make a coronal; and round him grew
All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue,
Together intertwined and trammel'd fresh:
The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh,
Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine,
Of velvet leaves, and bugle blooms divine.
Hard by,
Stood serene Cupids watching silently.
One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd the strings,
Muffling to death the pathos with his wings;
And, ever and anon, uprose to look
At the youth's slumber; while another took
A willow bough, distilling odorous dew,
And shook it on his hair; another flew
In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise,
Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes.
Keats. Modonna, wherefore hast thou sent to me
Sweet Basil and Mignonette,
Embleming love and health, which never yet
In the same wreath might be.
Alas, and they are wet!
Is it with thy kisses or thy tears?
For never rain or dew
Such fragrance drew
From plant or flower; the very doubt endears
My sadness ever new,
The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed, for thee.
P. B. Shelley. There grew pied Wind-flowers and Violets,
Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flowers that never set;
Faint Oxlips; tender Blue-bells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
Its mother's face with Heaven-collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush Eglantine,
Green Cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May
And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day;
And Wild Roses, and Ivy serpentine
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray,
And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white,
And starry river buds among the sedge.
And floating Water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
P. B. Shelley. Fade, Flow'rs! fade, Nature will have it so;
'Tis but what we must in our autumn do!
And as your leaves lie quiet on the ground,
The loss alone by those that lov'd them found;
So in the grave shall we as quiet lie,
Miss'd by some few that lov'd our company;
But some so like to thorns and nettles live,
That none for them can, when they perish, grieve.
Waller. ARRANGEMENT OF A BOUQUET. Here damask Roses, white and red,
Out of my lap first take I,
Which still shall run along the thread,
My chiefest flower this make I.

Amongst these Roses in a row,
Next place I Pinks in plenty,
These double Pansies then for show;
And will not this be dainty

The pretty Pansy then I'll tie,
Like stones some chain inchasing;
And next to them, their near ally,
The purple Violet placing.

The curious choice clove July flower,
Whose kind hight the Carnation,
For sweetnest of most sovereign power,
Shall help my wreath to fashion;

Whose sundry colours of one kind,
First from one root derived,
Them in their several suits I'll bind:
My garland so contrived.

A course of Cowslips then I'll stick,
And here and there (though sparely)
The pleasant Primrose down I'll prick.
Like pearls that will show rarely;

Then with these Marigolds I'll make
My garland somewhat swelling,
These Honeysuckles then I'll take,
Whose sweets shall help their smelling.

The Lily and the Fleur-de-lis.
For colour much contending;
For that I them do only prize,
They are but poor in scenting.

The Daffodil most dainty is,
To match with these in meetness;
The Columbine compared to this,
All much alike for sweetness.

These in their natures only are
Fit to emboss the border.
Therefore I'll take especial care
To place them in their order:

Sweet-williams, Campions, Sops-in-wine,
One by another neatly;
Thus have I made this wreath of mine,
And finished it featly.
Nicholas Drayton. THE CHERRY. There is a garden in her face,
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place.
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which, when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh.
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.
Richard Allison THE GARLAND. The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Cloe's hair.

At morn the nymph vouchaf'd to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flowers she wore along the day;
And every nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they look'd more gay
Than glowing in their native bed.

Undrest, at ev'ning, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past;
She chang'd her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropt sense distinct and clear,
As any muse's tongue could speak,
When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well;
My love! my life! said I, explain
This change of humour; pray thee tell:
That falling tear.—What does it mean

She sigh'd, she smil'd; and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said:
See! friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made!

Ah me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty are but one:
At morn both flourish bright and gay,
Both fade at ev'ning, pale, and gone!

At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung;
The am'rous youth around her bow'd:
At night her fatal knell was rung!
I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud;

Such as she is, who dy'd to-day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow:
Go, Damon, bid thy muse display
The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow.
Prior. TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE, MUCH OF TIME, Gather ye rose-buds while ye may:
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best, which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse and worst
Times will succeed the former.

—Then be not coy, but