May-Rose

[FOR A BIRTHDAY: MAY 20]


On this day to life she came -
May-Rose, my May-Rose!
With scented breeze, with flowered flame,
She touched the earth and took her name
                Of May, Rose.

Here, to-day, she grows and flowers -
May-Rose, my May-Rose.
All my life with light she dowers,
And colors all the coming hours
                With May, Rose!

George Parsons Lathrop

George Parsons Lathrop (August 25, 1851 – April 19, 1898) was an American poet, novelist, and editor. He was closely associated with the literary world of New England and was a prominent figure in the late 19th century. Lathrop was also known for his marriage to Rose Hawthorne, the daughter of famed novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne, and for his efforts in editing and preserving Hawthorne's works. His contributions spanned various literary forms including poetry and prose.

George Parsons Lathrop

The Voice Of The Void

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

Jessamine

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

Night In New York

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

The Child's Wish Granted

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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The May-Queen.

    Like flights of singing-birds went by
        The cheerful hours of girlhood's day,
                When, in my native bowers,
                Of simple buds and flowers
They wove a crown, and hailed me Queen of May!

    Like airy sprites the lasses came,
        Spring's offerings at my feet to lay;
                The crystal from the fountain,
                The green bough from the mountain,
They brought to cheer and shade the Queen of May.

    Around the May-pole on the green,
        A fairy ring they tripped away;
                All merriment and pleasure,
                To chords of tuneful measure
They bounded by the happy Queen of May.

    Though years have passed, and Time has strown
        My raven locks with flakes of gra...

George Pope Morris

A Madrigal

The lily-bells ring underground,
    Their music small I hear
When globes of dew that shine pearl round
    Hang in the cowslip's ear
And all the summer blooms and sprays
    Are sheathed from the sun,
And yet I feel in many ways
    Their living pulses run.

The crowning rose of summer time
    Lies folded on its stem,
Its bright urn holds no honey-wine,
    Its brow no diadem,
And yet my soul is inly thrilled,
    As if I stood anear
Some legal presence unrevealed,
    The queen of all the year.

Oh Rose, dear Rose! the mist and dew
    Uprising from the lake,
And sunshine glancing warmly through,
    Have kissed the flowers awake--
The orchard blooms are dropping balm,
    The tulip's gorgeous cup
More slender than a ...

Kate Seymour Maclean

Every Rose Hath Its Thorn.

        There was a maiden all forlorn,
        She loved a youth, his name was Thorn,
        But he was shy for to disclose
        How he loved dear the sweet May Rose.

        Lustre sweet it would give to Thorn,
        If this fair flower would it adorn,
        Said he all other names above
        Your charming name alone I love.

        Said she of beauty 'tis soon shorn,
        Unless that it is joined to Thorn,
        It very soon doth droop and die,
        And she heaved a gentle sigh.

        Said he we'll wed to-morrow morn,
        No more from me you shall be torn,
        For you will banish all my woes,
        And near my heart I'll wear the rose.

        Now little rose buds they are born,
        All clingin...

James McIntyre

To G. P. L.

We see the sky, - we love it day by day;
We feel the wind of Spring, from blossoms winging;
We meet with souls tender as tints in May:
For these large ecstasies what are we bringing?

There is no price, best friend, for greatest meed.
Laid on the altar of our true affection,
Wild flowers of love for me must intercede:
And lo! I win your unexcelled protection.

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Maiden May.

Maiden May sat in her bower,
In her blush rose bower in flower,
Sweet of scent;
Sat and dreamed away an hour,
Half content, half uncontent.

"Why should rose blossoms be born,
Tender blossoms, on a thorn
Though so sweet?
Never a thorn besets the corn
Scentless in its strength complete.

"Why are roses all so frail,
At the mercy of the gale,
Of a breath?
Yet so sweet and perfect pale,
Still so sweet in life and death."

Maiden May sat in her bower,
In her blush rose bower in flower,
Where a linnet
Made one bristling branch the tower
For her nest and young ones in it.

"Gay and clear the linnet trills;
Yet the skylark only, thrills
Heaven and earth
When he breasts the height, and fills
Height and depth ...

Christina Georgina Rossetti

May.

New flowery scents strewed everywhere,
New sunshine poured in largesse fair,
"We shall be happy now," we say.
A voice just trembles through the air,
And whispers, "May."

Nay, but we MUST! No tiny bud
But thrills with rapture at the flood
Of fresh young life which stirs to-day.
The same wild thrill irradiates our blood;
Why hint of "May"?

For us are coming fast and soon
The delicate witcheries of June;
July, with ankles deep in hay;
The bounteous Autumn. Like a mocking tune
Again sounds, "May."

Spring's last-born darling, clear-eyed, sweet,
Pauses a moment, with white twinkling feet,
And golden locks in breezy play,
Half teasing and half tender, to repeat
Her song of "May."

Ah, month of hope! all promised glee,
A...

Susan Coolidge