“The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare:
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;”
William Wordsworth.
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water upon the stones
Are nine and fifty swans.
W. B. Yeats.
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green
shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.
John Masefield.
A soft day, thank God!
The hills wear a shroud
Of silver cloud.
The web the spider weaves
Is a glittering net.
Winifred Letts.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
Robert Herrick.
Summer fading, winter comes
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,
Window robins, winter rooks,
And the picture story books.
R. L. Stevenson.
At seven, when I go to bed,
I find such pictures in my head:
Castles with dragons prowling round,
Gardens where magic fruits are found;
Fair ladies prisoned in a tower,
Or lost in an enchanted bower;
R. L. Stevenson.
“The gown should be snow-white silk
And strings of oriental pearls,
Like gossamers dipped in milk
Should twine thy raven curls!”
Thomas Hood.
I see His face in every flower,
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but His voice-
Joseph Mary Plunkett.
It was battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
Hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.
Myra ‘Brooks’ Welch.
Had I the heavens embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
W.B. Yeats.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatched
eaves run.
John Keats.
The flowers around the altar,
They made the air smell sweet,
And cool the chapel air would be
To little children’s feet.
Winifred Letts.
Out of the bosom of the air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
H.W. Longfellow.
Green, blue, yellow and red,
God is down in the swamps and marshes.
Patrick Kavanagh.
Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?
That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?
And splendidly mark’d with the story divine
Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold?
Keats.
“Variety is the spice of life.”
W. Cowper.
We are the music makers,
The dreamers of dreams.
Arthur O’Shaughnessy.
How beautiful is the rain
After the dust and heat.
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful the rain.
Anon.
Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he……
Longfellow.
A slash of Blue-
A sweep of gray-
Some scarlet patches on the way,
Compose an evening sky-
A little purple- slipped between-
Some ruby trousers hurried on-
A wave of gold-
A bank of day-
This just makes the morning sky.
Emily Dickinson.
The wood is robed in autumn gold,
Fast-falling leaves now clothe the forest floor.
A sunlit clearing glints through chestnut trees
Where woodland trails its laughing tendrils:
Crimson berries light the mountain ash,
A weeping birch is mirrored in the stream.
Lily Mc. Gellick.
My love is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June:
My love is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
Robert Burns.
When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
With a red hat that doesn’t go and doesn’t suit
me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and
summer gloves
And satin sandals and say we’ve no money for
butter.
Jenny Joseph.
4.
There are flowers enough in the summertime,
More flowers than I can remember,
But none with the purple, gold and red,
That dye the flowers of September.
Mary Howitt.
“All things bright and beautiful….”
Cecil Frances Alexander.
“…….Are we wreathing a flowery band to bind us to the earth…….”
John Keats
“Upon Westminster Bridge” (Wm. Wordsworth)
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in his majesty.
