Quotes about myrtle, page 14
Armenian Lullaby
If thou wilt shut thy drowsy eyes,
My mulberry one, my golden sun!
The rose shall sing thee lullabies,
My pretty cosset lambkin!
And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree,
With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee--
A silver boat in a golden sea,
My velvet love, my nestling dove,
My own pomegranate blossom!
The stork shall guard thee passing well
All night, my sweet! my dimple-feet!
And bring thee myrrh and asphodel,
My gentle rain-of-springtime!
And for thy slumbrous play shall twine
The diamond stars with an emerald vine
To trail in the waves of ruby wine,
My myrtle bloom, my heart's perfume,
My little chirping sparrow!
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poem by Eugene Field
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Whisper Softly, Stainless Lilies
WHISPER softly, stainless Lilies,
As you fold each snowy cup
Over soldiers who are sleep,
With their war-tents folded up.
Bear to them our loving message,
In thy sweet unwritten speech;
Chime, white bells, above them softly,
Echoes only angels teach.
Tell them, Roses, as you wither,
Tho' their dust shall heed you not;
Still by song and flag and blossom
We would prove them unforgot.
Show them, Pansy's purple shadow,
Through thy heart of golden bloom,
How the light of deeds heroic
Overlies the darkened tomb.
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poem by Ethel Lynn Beers from All Quiet along the Potomac and other poems (1879)
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A Ballade of Home
LET others prate of Greece and Rome,
And towns where they may never be,
The muse should wander nearer home.
My country is enough for me;
Her wooded hills that watch the sea,
Her inland miles of springing corn,
At Macedon or Barrakee—
I love the land where I was born.
On Juliet smile the autumn stars
And windswept plains by Winchelsea,
In summer on their sandy bars
Her rivers loiter languidly.
Where singing waters fall and flee
The gullied ranges dip to Lorne
With musk and gum and myrtle tree—
I love the land where I was born.
The wild things in her tangles move
As blithe as fauns in Sicily,
Where Melbourne rises roof by roof
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poem by Enid Derham
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Surmised Garden
How true and astounding was your soft laugh,
how smooth and flawlessly you beckoned,
but it was an edge of sword above our luck,
and it was a riddance, a death toll, that echoed.
Surmised garden ideally, shed rose blossoms,
so we attended all of this, a memory of glow,
because my feelings reached for your emotions,
and cried as my steepers in, allowed of the flow.
Frontal of heart, a crucifix, became a blunt cry,
of those stingers that once convinced us to abide,
in a sweet eternity, in stable skies and strive,
and it was a promise of a Nyx, our unguarded pride.
Bouquet of myrtle, you offered me, a rain's drops
a close exploded lightning became our symbol,
for ever after we molded words, our souls force,
and it was your dominion the clouds of your idol.
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Dedication
To Fairy
Do you recall -- I know you do --
A little gift once made to you --
A simple basket filled with flowers,
All favorites of our Southern bowers?
One was a snowy myrtle-bud,
Another blushed as if with blood,
A third was pink of softest tinge,
Then came a disk with purple fringe.
You took them with a happy smile,
And nursed them for a little while,
And once or twice perhaps you thought
Of the fond messages they brought.
And yet you could not then divine
The promise in that gift of mine, --
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poem by Henry Timrod
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To Fairy
Do you recall -- I know you do --
A little gift once made to you --
A simple basket filled with flowers,
All favorites of our Southern bowers?
One was a snowy myrtle-bud,
Another blushed as if with blood,
A third was pink of softest tinge,
Then came a disk with purple fringe.
You took them with a happy smile,
And nursed them for a little while,
And once or twice perhaps you thought
Of the fond messages they brought.
And yet you could not then divine
The promise in that gift of mine, --
In those bright blooms and odors sweet,
I laid this volume at your feet.
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poem by Henry Timrod
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Depression's Desperate Name
Depression's Desperate Name
How hard my heart does reel!
torn to pieces by things I feel
sore and forlorn in depths I sink
befallen to depression, of things I think
Bruised by injustice and falsehood
never many moments of feeling very good
begotten and weary, ashamed I seem
for my emotions at times are not a bad dream
I hold to hope however strong
and pray my feelings not last too long
most of life, for a sorry soul such as I
are bouts of blistering blues until I die
I relish moments of a happy time in life
but indelible ink spots of cruelty soar from strife
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poem by Myrtle Thomas
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From Vergil's Tenth Eclogue
Melodious Arethusa, o'er my verse
Shed thou once more the spirit of thy stream:
Who denies verse to Gallus? So, when thou
Glidest beneath the green and purple gleam
Of Syracusan waters, mayst thou flow
Unmingled with the bitter Doric dew!
Begin, and, whilst the goats are browsing now
The soft leaves, in our way let us pursue
The melancholy loves of Gallus. List!
We sing not to the dead: the wild woods knew
His sufferings, and their echoes...
Young Naiads,...in what far woodlands wild
Wandered ye when unworthy love possessed
Your Gallus? Not where Pindus is up-piled,
Nor where Parnassus’ sacred mount, nor where
Aonian Aganippe expands...
The laurels and the myrtle-copses dim.
The pine-encircled mountain, Maenalus,
The cold crags of Lycaeus, weep for him;
And Sylvan, crowned with rustic coronals,
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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Wattle and Myrtle
Gold of the tangled wilderness of wattle,
Break in the lone green hollows of the hills,
Flame on the iron headlands of the ocean,
Gleam on the margin of the hurrying rills.
Come with thy saffron diadem and scatter
Odours of Araby that haunt the air,
Queen of our woodland, rival of the roses,
Spring in the yellow tresses of thy hair.
Surely the old gods, dwellers on Olympus,
Under thy shining loveliness have strayed,
Crowned with thy clusters, magical Apollo,
Pan with his reedy music may have played.
Surely within thy fastness, Aphrodite,
She of the sea-ways, fallen from above,
Wandered beneath thy canopy of blossom,
Nothing disdainful of a mortal's love.
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poem by James Lister Cuthbertson
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Breton Afternoon
Here, where the breath of the scented-gorse floats through the
sun-stained air,
On a steep hill-side, on a grassy ledge, I have lain hours long
and heard
Only the faint breeze pass in a whisper like a prayer,
And the river ripple by and the distant call of a bird.
On the lone hill-side, in the gold sunshine, I will hush me and
repose,
And the world fades into a dream and a spell is cast on me;
_And what was all the strife about, for the myrtle or the rose,
And why have I wept for a white girl's paleness passing ivory!_
Out of the tumult of angry tongues, in a land alone, apart,
In a perfumed dream-land set betwixt the bounds of life and death,
Here will I lie while the clouds fly by and delve an hole where my
heart
May sleep deep down with the gorse above and red, red earth beneath.
Sleep and be quiet for an afternoon, till the rose-white angelus
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poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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