ladylinda
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Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
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May
May 31, 2014 6:23:02 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 31, 2014 6:23:02 GMT -5
Verses On A Butterfly
Joseph Warton
Fair Child of Sun and Summer! we behold With eager eyes thy wings bedropp'd with gold; The purple spots that o'er thy mantle spread, The sapphire's lively blue, the ruby's red, Ten thousand various blended tints surprise, Beyond the rainbow's hues or peacock's eyes: Not Judah's king in eastern pomp array'd, Whose charms allur'd from far the Sheban maid, High on his glitt'ring throne, like you could shine (Nature's completest miniature divine): For thee the rose her balmy buds renews, And silver lilies fill their cups with dews; Flora for thee the laughing fields perfumes, For thee Pomona sheds her choicest blooms, Soft Zephyr wafts thee on his gentlest gales O'er Hackwood's sunny hill and verdant vales; For thee, gay queen of insects! do we rove From walk to walk, from beauteous grove to grove; And let the critics know, whose pedant pride And awkward jests our sprightly sport deride: That all who honours, fame, or wealth pursue, Change but the name of things--they hunt for you.
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ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
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May
May 31, 2014 6:23:27 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 31, 2014 6:23:27 GMT -5
Blue-Butterfly Day
Robert Frost
It is blue-butterfly day here in spring, And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry There is more unmixed color on the wing Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.
But these are flowers that fly and all but sing: And now from having ridden out desire They lie closed over in the wind and cling Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.
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ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
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May
May 1, 2015 16:27:55 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 1, 2015 16:27:55 GMT -5
This is I think a beautiful poem.
Spring Song
Ludwig Uhland
What shall I say of Spring? What gifts has it bestowed? For all its loveliness it cannot bring One thing to ease my weary spirit's load.
How can the heart be gay, Torn, as my own, in endless pain? Now I first see that it is May, Now that the flowers lie crushed by the rain.
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