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I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet must-roses, and with eglantine. - William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream (Oberon at II, ii) These flow'rs are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the care on't. - William Shakespeare, Cymbeline (Imogen at IV, ii) With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Outsweet'ned not thy breath. - William Shakespeare, Cymbeline (Arviragus at IV, ii) When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men: for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear! - William Shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost (Spring at V, ii) No, I will rob Tellus of her weed, To strow thy green with flowers. The yellows, blues, The purple violets, and marigolds, Shall, as a carpet, hand upon thy grave, While summer days do last. - William Shakespeare, Pericles Prince of Tyre (Marina at IV, i) Th' expressure that it bears, green let it be, More fertile-fresh than all the field to see; And 'Honi soit qui mal y pense' write In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white, Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee. (Fairies use flowers for their character.) - William Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor (Mistress Quickly at V, v) I would I had some flowers o' th' spring that might Become your time of day, and yours, and yours, That wear upon your virgin branches yet Your maidenheads growing. O, Proserpina, For the flowers now that, frighted, thou let'st fall From Dis's wagon; daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength--a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one. - William Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale (Perdita at IV, iv) O Prosperina, For the flowers now that, frighted, thou let'st fall From Dis's wagon; daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength--a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one. - William Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale (Perdita at IV, iv) Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature's bastards. - William Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale (Perdita at IV, iv) And the spring arose on the garden fair like the spirit of Love felt everywhere. - Percy Bysshe Shelley There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets. - Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Question Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor weep without woe, and blush without a crime. - Horace (Horatio) Smith (a/k/a Paul Chatfield) Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers--each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book. - Horace (Horatio) Smith (a/k/a Paul Chatfield) Day stars! that ope your frownless eyes to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle As a libation. - Horace (Horatio) Smith (a/k/a Paul Chatfield), Hymn to the Flowers Ye bright Mosaics! That with storied beauty, The floor of Nature's temple tesselate, What numerous emblems of instructive duty Your forms create! - Horace (Horatio) Smith (a/k/a Paul Chatfield), Hymn to the Flowers The herb feeds upon the juice of a good soil, and drinks in the dew of heaven as eagerly, and thrives by it as effectually, as the stalled ox that tastes everything that he eats or drinks. - Bishop Robert South There is not the least flower but seems to hold up its head and to look pleasantly, in the secret sense of the goodness of its Heavenly Maker. - Bishop Robert South Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere; Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough; Sweet is the eglantine, but stiketh nere; Sweet is the firbloome, but its braunches rough; Sweet is the cypress, but its rynd is tough; Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough; And sweet is moly, but his root is ill. - Edmund Spenser, Amoretti (sonnet XXVI) Roses red and violets blew, And all the sweetest flowres that in the forrest grew. - Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene (bk. III, canto VI, st. 6) The violets ope their purple heads; The roses blow, the cowslip springs. - Jonathan Swift, Answer to a Scandalous Poem (l. 150) Primrose-eyes each morning ope In their cool, deep beds of grass; Violets make the air that pass Tell-tales of their fragrant slope. - Bayard Taylor, Home and Travel--Ariel in the Cloven Pine (l. 57) The aquilegia sprinkled on the rocks A scarlet rain; the yellow violet Sat in the chariot of its leaves, the phlox Held spikes of purple flame in meadows wet, And all the streams with vernal-scented reed Were fringed, and streaky bellow of miskodeed. - Bayard Taylor, Home and Travel--Mon-Da-Min (st. 17) The gold-eyed kingcups fine, The frail bluebell peereth over Rare broidery of the purple clover. - Lord Alfred Tennyson, A Dirge (st. 6) With roses musky-breathed, And drooping daffodilly, And silver-leaved lily. And ivy darkly-wreathed I wove a crown before her, For her I love so dearly. - Lord Alfred Tennyson, Anacreontics The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sighed for the dawn and thee. - Lord Alfred Tennyson, Maud (pt. XXII, st. 8) Displaying page 7 of 8 for this topic: << Prev Next >> 1 2 3 4 5 6 [7] 8
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