po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composing poetry. [Middle English poesie, from Old French, from Latin posis, from Greek poisis, from poiein, to create; see kwei-2 in Indo-European roots.]

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Location: Canada

Monday, May 09, 2011


It's May, and the lilac bushes outside my window are ready to burst into fragrant bloom.

I, Who Fade With The Lilacs
William Griffith (1876-1936)

I, who fade with the lilacs
And with the roses fade,
Am sharing this hour with them
Conferring in the shade.

Life has not left the wonder
With which it first began
To make Pierrot a poet,
In making him a man.

It has not made a rainbow,
In all the sorry years,
But was a sailing glory
Upon a sea of tears.

Somehow life leaves one stranded
On shores too near or far,
Hitching, forever hitching
Ships—shallops to a star.

My Litany
Patience Worth (1883-1937)

When the lilacs lie upon the rosy West, with
The hallowed sun o'erspread upon their plumes,
And the swallow, circling swings unto the eaves,
And the late fields still send up
The scent of fresh cutting;
When the first wick is lit in the valley,
And the smoke threads from the chimney's pit;
When my feet wend through the homeward path—
There is my Cathedral!
Before the Earth stirs her men to wake,
When the coolness of Night's lips still press
The hillocks, and the head of Night
Still reclines upon the valley's bosom;
When the morning star stands guard,
And the angels seem watchful—near,
There is my Prayer!
When the Night is sleeping, and the sky
Is pitchy dark; when there is no sound
Save the chatter of the nestlings,
And the stir of some weary beast;
When Earth hath forgot—
There is my Amen.

Virna Sheard (1865-1943)

In lonely gardens deserted--unseen--
Oh! lovely lilacs of purple and white,
You are dipping down through a mist of green;
For the morning sun's delight.
And the velvet bee, all belted with black,
Drinks deep of the wine which your flagons hold,
Clings close to your plumes while he fills his pack
With a load of burnished gold.

You hide the fences with blossoms of snow,
And sweeten the shade of castle towers;
Over low, grey gables you brightly blow,
Like amethysts turned to flowers.
The tramp on the highway--ragged and bold--
Wears you close to his heart with jaunty air;
You rest in my lady's girdle of gold,
And are held against her hair.

In God's own acre your tender flowers,
Bend down to the grasses and seem to sigh
For those who count time no more by hours--
Whose summers have all passed by--
But at eventide the south wind will sing,
Like a gentle priest who chanteth a prayer;
And thy purple censers he'll set a-swing,
To perfume the twilight air.

A Song of the Lilac
Louise Imogen Guiney (1861 - 1920)

Above the wall that's broken,
And from the coppice thinned,
So sacred and so sweet
The lilac in the wind!
And when by night the May wind blows
The lilac-blooms apart,
The memory of his first love
Is shaken on his heart.

In tears it long was buried,
And trances wrapt it round;
O how they wake it now,
The fragrance and the sound!
For when by night the May wind blows
The lilac-blooms apart,
The memory of his first love
Is shaken on his heart.

Now The Lilac Tree’s In Bud
Bliss Carman (1861 - 1929)

Now the lilac tree's in bud,
And the morning birds are loud.
Now a stirring in the blood
Moves the heart of every crowd.
Word has gone abroad somewhere
Of a great impending change.
There's a message in the air
Of an import glad and strange.
Not an idler in the street,
But is better off to-day.
Not a traveller you meet,
But has something wise to say.
Now there's not a road too long,
Not a day that is not good,
Not a mile but hears a song
Lifted from the misty wood.
Down along the Silvermine
That's the blackbird's cheerful note!
You can see him flash and shine
With the scarlet on his coat.
Now the winds are soft with rain,
And the twilight has a spell,
Who from gladness could refrain
Or with olden sorrows dwell?