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Lawrence You promised to send me some violets. Loveliest of Trees by A. Housman Loveliests of trees, the cherry now Man in Stream by Rosanna Warren You stand in the brook, mud smearing Not Dead by Robert Graves Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain Orpheus by William Shakespeare Orpheus with his lute made trees Pear Tree by H. Russian Birch by Nathaniel Bellows Is it agony that has bleached them to such beauty? Solstice by Ellen Dudley On the first full day of summer the sun is up The Branches by Jean Valentine The branches looked first like tepees The Weight by Linda Gregg Two horses were put together in the same paddock Trees by Joyce Kilmer I think that I shall never see Trees in the Garden by D.

Lawrence Ah in the thunder air Vertical by Linda Pastan Perhaps the purpose White Trees by Nathalie Handal When the white trees are no longer in sight From the Academy Archives: From A Poet's Glossary. Academy of American Poets Educator Newsletter.

Poems about flower. You can read the best flower poems. Browse through all flower poems.

Leave this field blank. Create new account Request new password. Posted April 01, I boiled long in the world of time, and long in the pot of this body. From these boilings I grew capable of strengthening the senses; I became animal spirit, and then became your teacher. The rope is faultless, O perverse ones — it is you who lack desire to reach the top. They paved paradise And put up a parking lot. I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

I never saw a discontented tree. They grip the ground as though they liked it, and though fast rooted they travel about as far as we do. They go wandering forth in all directions with every wind, going and coming like ourselves, traveling with us around the sun two million miles a day, and through space heaven knows how fast and far! If we represent knowledge as a tree, we know that things that are divided are yet connected.

We know that to observe the divisions and ignore the connections is to destroy the tree. The best friend of earth of man is the tree. When we use the tree respectfully and economically, we have one of the greatest resources on the earth. We can see from the experience of Odin that the image of the tree was the template within which all of the sacred world could be apprehended. And since the exploration of sacred space was also a quest into the nature of human consciousness, the tree was regarded as an image of the ways in which we, humans, are constructed psychically.

It was a natural model for our deepest wisdom, our highest aspirations. The great French Marshall Lyautey once asked his gardener to plant a tree. The gardener objected that the tree was slow growing and would not reach maturity for years. Being thus prepared for us in all ways, and made beautiful, and good for food, and for building, and for instruments of our hands, this race of plants, deserving boundless affection and admiration from us, becomes, in proportion to their obtaining it, a nearly perfect test of our being in right temper of mind and way of life; so that no one can be far wrong in either who loves trees enough, and everyone is assuredly wrong in both who does not love them, if his life has brought them in his way.

Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come. I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. If trees could scream, would we be so cavalier about cutting them down?

Tree Poems

We might, if they screamed all the time, for no good reason. And see the peaceful trees extend their myriad leaves in leisured dance— they bear the weight of sky and cloud upon the fountain of their veins. O chestnut tree, great rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, How can we know the dancer from the dance. A man is a bundle of relations, a knot of roots, whose flower and fruitage is the world.

There is, I conceive, scarcely any tree that may not be advantageously used in the various combinations of form and color. Many people, other than the authors, contribute to the making of a book, from the first person who had the bright idea of alphabetic writing through the inventor of movable type to the lumberjacks who felled the trees that were pulped for its printing. It is not customary to acknowledge the trees themselves, though their commitment is total.

That each day I may walk unceasingly on the banks of my water, that my soul may repose on the branches of the trees which I planted, that I may refresh myself under the shadow of my sycomore. And you, how old are you? I asked the maple tree: While opening one hand, — he started blushing. Because they are primeval, because they outlive us, because they are fixed, trees seem to emanate a sense of permanence.

And though rooted in earth, they seem to touch the sky. For these reasons it is natural to feel we might learn wisdom from them, to haunt about them with the idea that if we could only read their silent riddle rightly we should learn some secret vital to our own lives; or even, more specifically, some secret vital to our real, our lasting and spiritual existence.

As I age in the world it will rise and spread, and be for this place horizon and orison, the voice of its winds. I have made myself a dream to dream of its rising, that has gentled my nights. Let me desire and wish well the life these trees may live when I no longer rise in the mornings to be pleased with the green of them shining, and their shadows on the ground, and the sound of the wind in them. To be able to walk under the branches of a tree that you have planted is really to feel you have arrived with your garden. So far we are on the way: Suburbia is where the developer bulldozes out the trees, then names the streets after them.

A tree set up by the people, hung with flags and devices, and crowned with a cap of liberty. Trees of liberty were planted by the Italians in the revolution of Time-honored, beautiful, solemn and wise. Noble, sacred and ancient Trees reach the highest heavens and penetrate the deepest secrets of the earth. Trees are the largest living beings on this planet. Trees are in communion with the spiritual and the material. Trees guard the forests and the sanctified places that must not be spoiled.

Trees watch over us and provide us with what we need to live on this planet.

Trees provide a focal point for meditation, enlightenment, guidance and inspiration. Trees have a soul and a spirit. That tree whose leaves are trembling: That tree so lovely to see acts as if it wants to flower: Except during the nine months before he draws his first breath, no man manages his affairs as well as a tree does. Trees are the best monuments that a man can erect to his own memory. They speak his praises without flattery, and they are blessings to children yet unborn. A tree is known by its fruit; a man by his deeds. A good deed is never lost; he who sows courtesy reaps friendship, and he who plants kindness gathers love.

Verde que te quiero verde. Green I love you green. Evolution did not intend trees to grow singly. Far more than ourselves they are social creatures, and no more natural as isolated specimens than man is as a marooned sailor or hermit. All it has experienced, tasted, suffered: The course of years, generations of animals, Oppression, recovery, friendship of sun and — Wind Will pour forth each day in the song Of its rustling foliage, in the friendly Gesture of its gently swaying crown, In the delicate sweet scent of resinous Sap moistening the sleep-glued buds, And the eternal game of lights and Shadows it plays with itself, content.

Good timber does not grow with ease; the stronger the wind, the stronger the trees.

Love poetry?

The beauty of the trees, the softness of the air, the fragrance of the grass, speaks to me. The summit of the mountain, the thunder of the sky, speaks to me. The faintness of the stars, the trail of the sun, the strength of fire, and the life that never goes away, they speak to me. And my heart soars.

  1. Captain Kyd, Vol. II or, The Wizard of the Sea.
  2. Howling Moon: A Tale of the Sazi (Tales of the Sazi);
  3. Tree Poems and Poems About Trees | Trees Group.
  4. Country Bride: Contemporary Western Romance (Country Brides Book 1).
  5. Even More Tree Poems:.
  6. Hearthstories.
  7. Flower Of Love - Poem by Oscar Wilde.

A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in. And so she turns inward on herself The breeze caressing her, brushing her smooth skin, Her bright face gazing still. The wind Whispering darkly secrets of her past. She has no thought nor cares, nor words Except to gently brush away the petals falling on her heart. And so she comes to dream herself the tree, The wind possessing her, weaving her young veins, Holding her to the sky and its quick blue, Drowning the fever of her hands in sunlight.

She has no memory, nor fear, nor hope Beyond the grass and shadows at her feet. A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees. William Blake, Proverbs of Hell , Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life. Character is like a tree and reputation like a shadow.

Selected Poems | Botanically Speaking

The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing. Many a genius has been slow of growth. Oaks that flourish for a thousand years do not spring up into beauty like a reed. We have nothing to fear and a great deal to learn from trees, that vigorous and pacific tribe which without stint produces strengthening essences for us, soothing balms, and in whose gracious company we spend so many cool, silent and intimate hours.

Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me. Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence. A Summary of Belief. Other holidays repose on the past.

Ten Autumn poems

Arbor Day proposes the future. He that planteth a tree is a servant of God, he provideth a kindness for many generations, and faces that he hath not seen shall bless him. In the religion of the Medes and Persians the cult of trees plays an important part, and with them, as with Assyrians, the symbol of eternal life was a tree with a stream at its roots.

Another object of veneration was the sacred miracle tree, which within itself contained the seeds of all. Gothein, A History of Garden Art , May my life be like a great hospitable tree, and may weary wanderers find in me a rest. My heart is glad, my heart is high With sudden ecstasy; I have given back, before I die, Some thanks for every lovely tree That dead men grew for me. For in the true nature of things, if we rightly consider, every green tree is far more glorious than if it were made of gold and silver. And on the banks, on both sides of the river, there will grow all kinds of trees for food.

Their leaves will not wither nor their fruit fail, but they will bear fresh fruit every month, because the water for them flows from the sanctuary. Their fruit will be for food, and their leaves for healing. Among archetypal images, the Sacred Tree is one of the most widely known symbols on Earth. There are few cultures in which the Sacred Tree does not figure: There is always Music amongst the trees in the Garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it.

Sensing us, the trees tremble in their sleep, The living leaves recoil before our fires, Baring to us war-charred and broken branches, And seeing theirs, we for our own destruction weep. See the high birds! Or do they play in wheeling silences Defining in the perfect sky The bounds of here below our solitude,. Where spring has generated lights of green To glow in clouds upon the sombre branches? Ponds full of sky and stillnesses What heavy summer songs still sleep Under the tawny rushes at your brim?


More than a season will be born here, nature, In your world of gravid mirrors! One flash, one glance upon the shiny pond, and then Asperges me! For, like a grain of fire Smouldering in the heart of every living essence God plants His undivided power — Buries His thought too vast for worlds In seed and root and blade and flower,. Until, in the amazing light of April, Surcharging the religious silence of the spring, Creation finds the pressure of His everlasting secret Too terrible to bear.

Then every way we look, lo! And then, oh then the written image, schooled in sacrifice, The deep united threeness printed in our being, Shot by the brilliant syllable of such an intuition, turns within, And plants that light far down into the heart of darkness and oblivion, Dives after, and discovers flame. You are commenting using your WordPress.

You are commenting using your Twitter account. You are commenting using your Facebook account. Notify me of new comments via email. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. You are the same. Yeats Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. Anyone apart from someone he loves understands what I say. Anyone pulled from a source longs to go back. At any gathering I am there, mingling in the laughing and grieving, a friend to each, but few will hear the secrets hidden within the notes.

No ears for that. Body flowing out of spirit, spirit up from body: The reed flute is fire, not wind. The reed is a friend to all who want the fabric torn and drawn away. The reed is hurt and salve combining. Intimacy and longing for intimacy, one song. A disastrous surrender and a fine love, together. The one who secretly hears this is senseless. A tongue has one customer, the ear. A sugarcane flute has such effect because it was able to make sugar in the reedbed.

The sound it makes is for everyone. Days full of wanting, let them go by without worrying that they do. Stay where you are inside such a pure, hollow note. Every thirst gets satisfied except that of these fish, the mystics, who swim a vast ocean of grace still somehow longing for it! No one lives in that without being nourished every day. Or do they play in wheeling silences Defining in the perfect sky The bounds of here below our solitude, Where spring has generated lights of green To glow in clouds upon the sombre branches? For, like a grain of fire Smouldering in the heart of every living essence God plants His undivided power — Buries His thought too vast for worlds In seed and root and blade and flower, Until, in the amazing light of April, Surcharging the religious silence of the spring, Creation finds the pressure of His everlasting secret Too terrible to bear.

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