Posts filed under ‘.flowers’

Gentil Coquelicot

J’ai descendu dans mon jardin (bis)
Pour y cueillir du romarin.
Gentil coquelicot, Mesdames,
Gentil coquelicot, nouveau.

J’n’en avais pas cueilli trois brins (bis)
Qu’un rossignol vint sur ma main
Gentil coquelicot, Mesdames,
Gentil coquelicot, nouveau.

Qu’un rossignol vint sur ma main (bis)
Il me dit trois mots en latin
Gentil coquelicot, Mesdames,
Gentil coquelicot, nouveau.

Il me dit trois mots en latin (bis)
Que les hommes ne valent rien
Gentil coquelicot, Mesdames,
Gentil coquelicot, nouveau.

Que les hommes ne valent rien (bis)
Et les garçons encore bien moins !
Gentil coquelicot, Mesdames,
Gentil coquelicot, nouveau.

Et les garçons encore bien moins !
Des dames, il ne me dit rien
Mais des d’moiselles beaucoup de bien
Gentil coquelicot, Mesdames,
Gentil coquelicot, nouveau.

(more…)

Advertisements

March 7, 2019 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

Snowdrops

by Mary Vivian

I like to think
That, long ago,
There fell to earth
Some flakes of snow
Which loved this cold,
Grey world of ours
So much, they stayed
As snowdrop flowers.

(more…)

February 19, 2019 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

To a Snowdrop

By William Wordsworth

Lone flower, hemmed in with snows, and white as they

But hardier far, once more I see thee bend

Thy forehead as if fearful to offend,

Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day

Storms sallying from the mountain-tops, waylay

The rising sun, and on the plains descend;

et art though welcome, welcome as a friend

Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May

Shall soon behold this border thickly set

With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing

On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers;

Nor will I then thy modest grace forget,

Chaste snowdrop, venturous harbinger of spring,

And pensive monitor of fleeting years.

(more…)

January 31, 2019 at 3:25 pm Leave a comment

Ode À Cassandre


Pierre De Ronsard

Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
Qui ce matin avoit déclose
Sa robe de pourpre au Soleil,
A point perdu cette vesprée
Les plis de sa robe pourprée,
Et son teint au vôtre pareil.
Las ! voyez comme en peu d’espace,
Mignonne, elle a dessus la place
Las ! las ses beautés laissé choir!
Ô vraiment marâtre Nature,
Puis qu’une telle fleur ne dure
Que du matin jusques au soir!

Donc, si vous me croyez, mignonne,
Tandis que votre âge fleuronne
En sa plus verte nouveauté,
Cueillez, cueillez vôtre jeunesse :
Comme à cette fleur la vieillesse
Fera ternir votre beauté.

.en translation

Sweetheart, let’s see if the rose
That this morning had open
Her crimson dress to the Sun,
This evening hasn’t lost
The folds of her crimson dress,
And her complexion similar to yours.

Ah! See how in such short space
My sweetheart, she has on this very spot
All her beauties lost!
O, so un-motherly Nature,
Since such a beautiful flower
Only last from dawn to dusk!

So if you believe me, my sweetheart,
While time still flowers for you,
In its freshest novelty,
Do take advantage of your youthful bloom:
As it did to this flower, the doom
Of age will blight your beauty.

(more…)

October 15, 2018 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

Margaret Mee and the Moonflower

(more…)

June 13, 2018 at 8:25 pm 1 comment

In Flanders Fields

by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

(more…)

November 10, 2017 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

June

by Virna Sheard

The Ballad of the Quest

Now by every meadow-side the buttercups blow—
(O June, you are spendthrift of your gold!)
Green are the uplands where the little lambs go,
Green and glad the forests that are old.
Once again the summer weaves on her magic loom,
Cloth of clover,—fairy web of wheat;—
Only Mary’s alabaster box of perfume
Ever made the passing wind more sweet.
Even through the city where the dusty roads run,
Blue runs now the river to the sea.
Tender is the twilight when the long day is done,—
Infinite the stars’ tranquillity.
Not forever are the rains or the winter snows,
All these past—nor shall be overlong,—
And with every lovely June cometh the rose,
The sweet blue dusk,—a night-bird’s wonder-song!

June 1, 2016 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

Older Posts


Categories