Tulip Spring, to D. © JC Milne
This morning's poem was a belated anniversary gift to my husband (who brought me red roses and dark chocolates!). It obviously refers to more than tulips!
Tulip Spring, to D. © J C Milne
Rich banners of an army declare this spring,
blood-red, cup-gold, sun-yellow, all flung
brilliant in the breeze, bold bright sheen
a tapestry of delight, a shout, wave, broad
ripple in their worked hostelry of earth,
forecourt of lawn, splayed canopy of leaf.
These blooms are ordered, ranged, defy
the wilderness of new light, the march
of hooded crow across the timid lawn,
the startled flight of sparrow, the crook
and sprawl of roses past the fence’s screen,
the gleam of rocks held in the sea’s sheath.
They are no accident, no spawn or career
of the year’s haphazard swing to warmth
in this microcosm of the north; rather they are
your produce, you lover of tranquillity and joy,
your work, to foster these, your endeavour
christens them, your gift, and your resplendence.
Tulip Spring, to D. © J C Milne
Rich banners of an army declare this spring,
blood-red, cup-gold, sun-yellow, all flung
brilliant in the breeze, bold bright sheen
a tapestry of delight, a shout, wave, broad
ripple in their worked hostelry of earth,
forecourt of lawn, splayed canopy of leaf.
These blooms are ordered, ranged, defy
the wilderness of new light, the march
of hooded crow across the timid lawn,
the startled flight of sparrow, the crook
and sprawl of roses past the fence’s screen,
the gleam of rocks held in the sea’s sheath.
They are no accident, no spawn or career
of the year’s haphazard swing to warmth
in this microcosm of the north; rather they are
your produce, you lover of tranquillity and joy,
your work, to foster these, your endeavour
christens them, your gift, and your resplendence.
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J.C.
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May 16, 2021 12:02PM
Thanks, John! If you're passing, come and see the tulips!
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Come and see the Bluebells, Anne BronteThe Bluebell
A fine and subtle spirit dwells
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling breathes
With more or less of power.
There is a silent eloquence
In every wild bluebell
That fills my softened heart with bliss
That words could never tell.
Yet I recall not long ago
A bright and sunny day,
'Twas when I led a toilsome life
So many leagues away;
That day along a sunny road
All carelessly I strayed,
Between two banks where smiling flowers
Their varied hues displayed.
Before me rose a lofty hill,
Behind me lay the sea,
My heart was not so heavy then
As it was wont to be.
Less harassed than at other times
I saw the scene was fair,
And spoke and laughed to those around,
As if I knew no care.
But when I looked upon the bank
My wandering glances fell
Upon a little trembling flower,
A single sweet bluebell.
Whence came that rising in my throat,
That dimness in my eye?
Why did those burning drops distil —
Those bitter feelings rise?
O, that lone flower recalled to me
My happy childhood's hours
When bluebells seemed like fairy gifts
A prize among the flowers,
Those sunny days of merriment
When heart and soul were free,
And when I dwelt with kindred hearts
That loved and cared for me.
I had not then mid heartless crowds
To spend a thankless life
In seeking after others' weal
With anxious toil and strife.
'Sad wanderer, weep those blissful times
That never may return!'
The lovely floweret seemed to say,
And thus it made me mourn.
So lovely, John - you and I have shared memories before of bluebell woods - and you have one! Thank you for the invitation - I go away next week but if the children want to come I will bring them.
Thanks, Nick, for your like - much appreciated.
