Death was not. I lived in a simple drowse:Hands and hair moved through a dream of wakening blossoms.Rain sweetened the cave and the dove still called;The flowers leaned on themselves, the flowers in hollows;And love, love sang toward.
Oh, to be in England now that April's there.
Sweet as sweetest Grecian honey will my song be when I sing, O Beloved, in the season of the Spring!
And she was fair as is the rose in May.
The Blossoms and leaves in plenty From the apple tree fall each day; The merry breezes approach them, And with them merrily play.
I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers: Of April, May, or June, and July flowers. I sing of Maypoles, Hock-carts, wassails, wakes, Of bridegrooms, brides, and of the bridal cakes.
Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
The eyes of spring, so azure, Are peeping from the ground; They are the darling violets, That I in nosegays bound.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, a box where sweets compacted lie.
Life without love is like a tree without blossoms or fruit.
I love better to count time from spring to spring; it seems to me far more cheerful to reckon the year by blossoms than by blight.
And love was creation's source,creation's ruler; but all love's ways are strewn with blossoms and blood, blossoms and blood.
bees dig the plum blossoms
One of the best ways to see tree flowers is to climb one of the tallest trees and to get into close, tingling touch with them, and then look broad.
I love perfumes. Every morning when my girlfriend and I come down to the courtyard in our block of flats we're assailed by the most delicious scent - jasmine round a doorway. It almost makes me swoon.
Sweet May hath come to love us, Flowers, trees, their blossoms don; And through the blue heavens above us The very clouds move on.
I pray, what flowers are these? The pansy this, O, that's for lover's thoughts.
There is continual spring, and harvest there Continual, both meeting at one time: For both the boughs do laughing blossoms bear, And with fresh colours deck the wanton prime, And eke attonce the heavy trees they climb, Which seem to labour under their fruits load: The whiles the joyous birds make their pastime Amongst the shady leaves, their sweet above, And their true loves without suspicion tell abroad.
Hebe's here, May is here! The air is fresh and sunny; And the miser-bees are busy Hoarding golden honey.
To whom it may concern: It is springtime. It is late afternoon.
Many kinds of fruit grow upon the tree of life, but none so sweet as friendship; as with the orange tree its blossoms and fruit appear at the same time, full of refreshment for sense and for soul.
'Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.
Ye winds ye unseen currents of the air, Softly ye played a few brief hours ago; Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the air O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow; Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue; Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew; Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew, Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow.
We have much to hope from the flowers.
Then all at once in late August's heat, tall leafless stalks crowned with iridescent pink and purple blossoms burst from the purgatory in the earth. This arcane act of nature, though perceived by us as ordinary, is a manifestation of Maya's phantom play, the great immensity expressed in every way. My garden is the universe. I am the universe. I am my garden. All things are the same.
