Quotes about myrtle, page 7
The Preference Declared
Boy, I detest the Persian pomp;
I hate those linden-bark devices;
And as for roses, holy Moses!
They can't be got at living prices!
Myrtle is good enough for us,--
For you, as bearer of my flagon;
For me, supine beneath this vine,
Doing my best to get a jag on!
poem by Eugene Field
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Song
Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,
Love is a sword that cuts its sheath,
And thro' the clefts, itself has made,
We spy the flashes of the Blade !
But thro' the clefts, itself has made,
We likewise see Love's flashing blade,
By rust consumed or snapt in twain :
And only Hilt and Stump remain.
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Colour of Happiness
The colour of anger is Red
Frustration connubial to Dread
The colour of love is Purple
Sanguine to Aphrodite's myrtle
The colour of life is green
Freshly mixed with infused submarine
But the colour of happiness is transparent
A viscous antonym of denotation
and I am the colours Souvenir
Cheap, artefact of a personas facsimile
poem by Kevin Patrick
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The Willow
On sweet young earth where the myrtle presses,
Long we lay, when the May was new;
The willow was winding the moon in her tresses,
The bud of the rose was told with dew.
And now on the brittle ground I'm lying,
Screaming to die with the dead year's dead;
The stem of the rose is black and drying,
The willow is tossing the wind from her head.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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In after Time
NO, my own love of other years!
No, it must never be.
Much rests with you that yet endears,
Alas! but what with me?
Could those bright years o’er me revolve
So gay, o’er you so fair,
The pearl of life we would dissolve
And each the cup might share.
You show that truth can ne’er decay,
Whatever fate befalls;
I, that the myrtle and the bay
Shoot fresh on ruin’d walls.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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From Citron-Bower
From citron-bower be her bed,
cut from branch of tree a-flower,
fashioned for her maidenhead.
From Lydian apples, sweet of hue,
cut the width of board and lathe,
carve the feet from myrtle-wood.
Let the palings of her bed
be quince and box-wood overlaid
with the scented bark of yew.
That all the wood in blossoming,
may calm her heart and cool her blood,
for losing of her maidenhood.
poem by Hilda Doolittle
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The Bag Of The Bee
About the sweet bag of a bee
Two Cupids fell at odds;
And whose the pretty prize should be
They vow'd to ask the Gods.
Which Venus hearing, thither came,
And for their boldness stript them;
And taking thence from each his flame,
With rods of myrtle whipt them.
Which done, to still their wanton cries,
When quiet grown she'd seen them,
She kiss'd and wiped their dove-like eyes,
And gave the bag between them.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Itch
Who understands the logic
Behind the desire
That flurries up nausea and breasts' itch,
Unmet, fret frown as birthmark
What's me made-hunger raw obsession,
Through blood cord,
Sip, what's mother chew drip
Whose juice taste of gardens
Arrested in autumn scent
Voluptuous with citron, myrtle, jasmine
Alive with bees buzz.
I sense all fruit sap
As current of our blood...
The green flooding into the red.
poem by Yoonoos Peerbocus
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On Tea
Venus her myrtle, Phoebus has her bays;
Tea both excels, which she vouchsafes to praise.
The best of Queens, and best of herbs, we owe
To that bold nation, which the way did show
To the fair region where the sun doth rise,
Whose rich productions we so justly prize.
The Muse's friend, tea does our fancy aid,
Repress those vapors which the head invade,
And keep the palace of the soul serene,
Fit on her birthday to salute the Queen.
poem by Edmund Waller
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To The Rose: Song
Go, happy Rose, and interwove
With other flowers, bind my Love.
Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,
That so oft has fetter'd me.
Say, if she's fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold, to bind her hands;
Tell her, if she struggle still,
I have myrtle rods at will,
For to tame, though not to kill.
Take thou my blessing thus, and go
And tell her this,--but do not so!--
Lest a handsome anger fly
Like a lightning from her eye,
And burn thee up, as well as I!
poem by Robert Herrick
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