A Flower. Painted By Simon Varelst

When famed Varelst this little wonder drew,
Flora vouchsafed the growing works to view;
Finding the painter's science at a stand,
The goddess snatch'd the pencil from his hand,
And finishing the piece, she smiling said,
Behold one work of mine that ne'er shall fade.

Matthew Prior

Matthew Prior was an English poet and diplomat. He is known for his extensive contributions to poetry during the late 17th and early 18th centuries. Prior's works often blend sharp wit, classical allusions, and a mastery of form. Apart from poetry, he was actively involved in politics and served as a diplomat for the English government. His poetry reflects his broad knowledge and varied experiences.

Matthew Prior

Epitaph - On Himself

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

Cantata. Set By Mons. Galliard

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

Songs Set To Music: 5. Set By Mr. De Fesch

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

Written In Montaignes Essays. Given To The Duke Of Shrewsbury In France, After The Peace

Matthew Prior, 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.

The Judgement Of Venus

When Kneller's works, of various grace,
Were to fair Venus shown,
The Goddess spied in every face
Some features of her own.

Just so, (and pointing with her hand)
So shone, says she, my eyes,
When from two goddesses I gain'd
An apple for a prize.

When in the glass and river too
My face I lately view'd,
Such was I, if the glass be true,
If true the crystal flood.

In colours of this glorious kind
Apelles painted me;
My hair, thus flowing with the wind
Sprung from my native sea.

Like this disorder'd, wild, forlorn,
Big with ten thousand fears,
Thee, my Adonis, did I mourn
E'en beautiful in tears.

But viewing Myra placed apart,
I fear, says she, I fear,
Appelles, that Sir Godfrey's art
Has far surpass...

Matthew Prior

Love As A Landscape Painter.

On a rocky peak once sat I early,
Gazing on the mist with eyes unmoving;
Stretch'd out like a pall of greyish texture,
All things round, and all above it cover'd.

Suddenly a boy appear'd beside me,
Saying "Friend, what meanest thou by gazing
On the vacant pall with such composure?
Hast thou lost for evermore all pleasure
Both in painting cunningly, and forming?"
On the child I gazed, and thought in secret:
"Would the boy pretend to be a master?"

"Wouldst thou be for ever dull and idle,"
Said the boy, "no wisdom thou'lt attain to;
See, I'll straightway paint for thee a figure,
How to paint a beauteous figure, show thee."

And he then extended his fore-finger,
(Ruddy was it as a youthful rosebud)
Tow'rd the broad and far outstretching carpe...

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

To A Painter

All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed;
But 'tis a fruitless task to paint for me,
Who, yielding not to changes Time has made,
By the habitual light of memory see
Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade,
And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er shall flee
Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be;
And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead.
Couldst thou go back into far-distant years,
Or share with me, fond thought! that inward eye,
Then, and then only, Painter! could thy Art
The visual powers of Nature satisfy,
Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears,
Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart.

William Wordsworth

To A Lady - In Answer To A Request That I Would Write Her A Poem Upon Some Drawings That She Had Made Of Flowers In The Island Of Madeira

Fair Lady! can I sing of flowers
That in Madeira bloom and fade,
I who ne'er sate within their bowers,
Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed?
How they in sprightly dance are worn
By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen,
Or holy festal pomps adorn,
These eyes have never seen.

Yet tho' to me the pencil's art
No like remembrances can give,
Your portraits still may reach the heart
And there for gentle pleasure live;
While Fancy ranging with free scope
Shall on some lovely Alien set
A name with us endeared to hope,
To peace, or fond regret.

Still as we look with nicer care,
Some new resemblance we may trace:
A 'Heart's-ease' will perhaps be there,
A 'Speedwell' may not want its place.
And so may we, with charmed mind
Beholding w...

William Wordsworth

An Easter Flower.

I.

The flower that she gave to me
    Has withered now and died--
But yet with fond fidelity
    Its faded leaves abide.


II.

The petals that so fragrant then
    She wore upon her breast--
Still clinging to the lifeless stem,
    With miser care possessed.


III.

As when in sweetest purity
    It shed its perfume rare,
A symbol dear 'twill ever be
    Of one divinely fair!


IV.

Plucked by the cruel hand of Death
    In beauty's youthful bloom--
She perished with his chilling breath,
    And withered in the tomb.


V.

But I will cherish ever thus
    The token that she gave
When sun-lit skies were over us,
    Unclouded by the grave!

George W. Doneghy

Spring Flowers

    Bowing adorers of the gale,
    Ye cowslips delicately pale,
    Upraise your loaded stems;
    Unfold your cups in splendour; speak!
    Who decked you with that ruddy streak
    And gilt your golden gems?

    Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,
    In purple's richest pride arrayed,
    Your errand here fulfil;
    Go, bid the artist's simple stain
    Your lustre imitate--in vain--
    And match your Maker's skill.

    Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth,
    Embroiderers of the carpet earth,
    That stud the velvet sod,
    Open to Spring's refreshing air,
    In sweetest smiling bloom declare
    Your Maker and your God.

John Clare