Daffodils - William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Sunflowers and Roses
Come live in our garden and know the good life
We bask in the sunlight and survive any strife
Our arms reach up to the heavens, our faces are kissed by the sun
We bloom separate among us but in God we are one
We're all sunflowers and roses of a remarkable height
Growing steadfast and strong in the direction of His light
- Author Unknown
He Who Owns a Garden
He who owns a garden,
However small it be,
Whose hands have planted in it
Flower or Bush or Tree;
He who watches patiently
The growth from nurtured,
Who thrills a newly opened bloom
Is very close to God
Katherine Edelman
In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd
palings,
Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich
green,
with many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I
love,
With every leaf a miracle - and from this bush in the dooryard,
With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig with its flower I break.
- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, 1865
Through primrose tufts,
in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
- William Wordsworth
The roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones;
they are for what they are; they exist with God today. There is no time to them.
There is simply the rose. It is perfect in every moment of its existence.
- Ralph Waldo Emerson