🪆 @nestingdollset - Tumblr Blog

the seeds i’ve been planting for 2 years are slowly sprouting

about me: name’s sab, on brain no. 2_ (<- fill in the blank), crazy cat lady in the making, down to yes bad, like a set of nesting dolls but a human

#aka multilayered like everyone #my first post #pinned #music

#Bandcamp

THE EARLY VIOLETS.

A tear-drop stood in the violet's eye, As the keen March wind swept fiercely by; It folded its leaves of an emerald green, To ward off the blast so cutting and keen, Which bowed it to the ground.

One luckless flower was thus exposed, The rest of the buds were firmly closed ; But they felt that their lov'd companion sigh'd; And at eve the purple favourite died, And withered on its stem.

But a sunbeam kissed the unopened flowers, The following day in the noontide hours, Forgotten their first-born favourite's doom, Proudly they burst into purple bloom, In the golden sunlight's rays.

For a few short hours they were glad and warm, But alas! at eve came the sweeping storm, And the evening dew wept tears in vain, It could not revive those flowers again, By the cruel March wind killed.

lover’s language of flowers selected poem, 1800

THE CROCUS.

Down in my solitude under the snow, Where nothing cheering can reach me: Here, without light to see how to grow, I'll trust to nature to teach me.

I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown, Lock'd in so gloomy a dwelling ; My leaves shall run up, and my roots shall run down, While the bud in my bosom is swelling.

Soon as the frost will get out of my bed, From this cold dungeon to free me, I will peer up with my little bright head- All will be joyful to see me.

Then from my heart will young buds divergo. As rays of the sun from their focus ; And I from the darkness of earth will emerge. A happy and beautiful crocus!

Gaily arrayed in my yellow and green, When to their view I have risen, Will the not wonder how one so serene Came from so dismal a prison ?

Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower This useful lesson may borrow : - Patient to-day, through its gloomiest hour, We come out the brighter to-morrow!

lover's language of flowers selected poem, 1800