A Bouquet

A blossom pink, a blossom blue,
    Make all there is in love so true.
'Tis fit, methinks, my heart to move,
    To give it thee, sweet girl, I love!
Now, take it, dear, this morn and wear
    A wreath of beauty in thy hair;
Think on it, when from bliss we part -
    The emblem of my wooing heart!

Edward Smyth Jones

Edward Smyth Jones was an African American poet born in Natchez, Mississippi, best known for his poem "A Song of Thanks". He faced significant challenges throughout his life, including racial prejudice and economic hardship. His work often reflects his struggles and aspirations, particularly focusing on themes of resilience, hope, and gratitude. Despite his relatively obscure status in literary circles, Jones's contributions are recognized for their emotional depth and historical significance. He passed away in 1968.

Edward Smyth Jones

A Song Of Thanks

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

Woman

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

An Ode To The Soldiers' And Sailors' Monument

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

Harvard Square

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

To J. S. B.

On seeing her December 25th, 1904, after two years' travel.


Take, fair maid, these simple lines
    From my pen;
Think of strollings 'neath the pines,
    Which have been -
Long and lonesome were the days
    We were apart,
But may Love, now, have her sways, -
    Bind heart to heart!
O'er main to isle and back to land
    Have I been;
Beheld on either hand
    A maiden queen:
But none with captivating charms
    Like thine;
None to nestle in her arms,
    Love of mine!
Charms unto thee God gave
    To banish strife;
To glorify and save
    One sweet life -
Take this, dear, before we part
    From this bliss;
'Tis but love flowing from my heart,
    Thine to kiss!

Edward Smyth Jones

To A Beautiful Child On Her Birthday, With A Wreath Of Flowers.

Whilst others give thee wond'rous toys,
    Or jewels rich and rare,
I bring but flowers - more meet are they
    For one so young and fair.

'Tis not because that snowy brow
    Might with the lily vie,
Or violet match the starry glance
    Of that dark, lustrous eye;

Nor yet because a brighter blush
    E'en rose leaf never wore,
But 'tis that in their leaves lies hid
    A rare and mystic lore.

And with its aid I now shall form
    A wreath of flow'rets wild -
Graceful, and full of meaning sweet,
    To deck thy brow, fair child!

The primrose, first, the emblem fit
    Of budding, early youth;
The daisy in whose leaves we read
    Pure innocence and truth.

The rosebud, sign of youthful charms,
    We wel...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Love's Emblem

Go rose, my Chloe's bosom grace:
How happy should I prove,
Could I supply that envied place
With never-fading love.

Accept, dear maid, now Summer glows,
This pure, unsullied gem,
Love's emblem in a full-blown rose,
Just broken from the stem.

Accept it as a favourite flower
For thy soft breast to wear;
'Twill blossom there its transient hour,
A favourite of the fair.

Upon thy cheek its blossom glows,
As from a mirror clear,
Making thyself a living rose,
In blossom all the year.

It is a sweet and favourite flower
To grace a maiden's brow,
Emblem of love without its power--
A sweeter rose art thou.

The rose, like hues of insect wing,
May perish in an hour;
'T is but at best a fading thing,
But thou'...

John Clare

Bouquet and Bracelet

Bouquet said: My floral ring
The homage of a heart encloses,
Whose thoughts to you go worshipping
In perfume from my blushing roses.

Bracelet said: My rubies red,
Though hard the gleam that each exposes,
Will last when flowers of Spring are fled
And dead are all the Summer roses.

Beauty mused awhile, and said,
Heres poesy! and sighed, Here prose is
Bouquet! I choose the rubies red!
In Winter they will buy me roses.

Victor James Daley

Two Roses

A humble wild-rose, pink and slender,
    Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet,
Beside a Jacqueminot's royal splendour,
    And both in my lady's boudoir lay.

Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning,
    "I wonder why you are called a rose?
Your leaves will fade in a single morning;
    No blood of mine in your pale cheek glows.

"Your coarse green stalk shows dust of the highway,
    You have no depths of fragrant bloom;
And what could you learn in a rustic byway
    To fit you to lie in my lady's room?

"If called to adorn her warm, white bosom,
    What have you to offer for such a place,
Beside my fragrant and splendid blossom,
    Ripe with colour and rich with grace?"

Said the sweet wild-rose, "Despite your dower
    ...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Hunter's Serenade.

Thy bower is finished, fairest!
Fit bower for hunter's bride,
Where old woods overshadow
The green savanna's side.
I've wandered long, and wandered far,
And never have I met,
In all this lovely western land,
A spot so lovely yet.
But I shall think it fairer,
When thou art come to bless,
With thy sweet smile and silver voice,
Its silent loveliness.

For thee the wild grape glistens,
On sunny knoll and tree,
The slim papaya ripens
Its yellow fruit for thee.
For thee the duck, on glassy stream,
The prairie-fowl shall die,
My rifle for thy feast shall bring
The wild swan from the sky.
The forest's leaping panther,
Fierce, beautiful, and fleet,
Shall yield his spotted hide to be
A carpet for thy feet.

I know, for t...

William Cullen Bryant