#dora read goodale

[violettesiren]

When shall Springtime cheer us, When, ah when? When fair June is near us, Then, ah then! Then the trees shall burst in leaf, Winter shall forget his grief; Winds shall all forget to moan In their wild and wintry tone; Gentle breezes then shall play Thro' the fragrant woods of May, Birds shall seek a Northern home, Bees and flowers together come: When shall Springtime cheer us, When, ah when? When fair June is near us, Not till then!

When Shall Springtime Cheer Us? by Dora Read Goodale

[trixie-and-ames]

The icicles now fringe the trees

That swayed in summer's gentle breeze,

When summer days were fair.

-Dora Read Goodale

[julesofnature]

Crimson clover I discover By the garden gate, And the bees about her hover, But the robins wait. Sing, robins, sing, Sing a roundelay,— 'Tis the latest flower of Spring Coming with the May!

Red Clover; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations 

(1922), p. 122.

Dora Read Goodale

[artfortheages]

A blossom of returning light,  An April flower of sun and dew; The earth and sky, the day and night  Are melted in her depth of blue!

Dora Read Goodale—Blue Violets

[janejeffer]

by Dora Read Goodale 1866-1915 This is the total poem titled ´Blue Violets´ The violet blooms with every Spring, With every Spring the breezes blow, And once again the robins sing A song more sweet than June can know. So with the violet comes desire For something else than common gain, - The glow of more than earthly fire, The sting of more than actual pain. A thousand slackened memories start, Encompassed by a violet’s breath, - The vital wish of every heart, The Life that triumphs over Death. A blossom of returning light, An April flower of sun and dew; The earth and sky, the day and night Are melted in her depth of blue! So comes and goes an April day, And so the violet comes and goes, - A few pale blossoms grace the May, A last faint breath the May-wind blows. But now the air is full and free, With the quickening pulses of the Spring, And longing for the life to be The phoebes of a sudden sing. And on a green and shaded slope The air is stirred with sweet perfumes, Where, in the heat and light of hope, Again the rare blue violet blooms!

[mylifephotographybycaley]

"I love the fair lilies and roses so gay, They are rich in their pride and their splendor; But still more do I love to wander away To the meadow so sweet, Where down at my feet, The harebell blooms modest and tender." - Dora Read Goodale #dorareadgoodale #chocolatelily #lily #lilyflower #pocket_nature #okanaganphotographer #okanaganexplorers #iphone6s #macro #pocket_pretty #pocket_flowers #flowerporn #flowerstagram #flowers #mothernature #wildflowers #macrophotography #exploreokanagan (at Kalamalka Lake Provincial Park)

[clementinejazz]

When the fields are sweet with clover, And the woods are glad with song, When the brooks are running over, And the days are bright and long. Then, from every nook and bower peeps the dainty strawberry flower. -Dora Read Goodale

[violettesiren]

No winter twilight chills us now, but rather The night is waning, and the day is near; For to the northern distance, and yet farther Fades the unheeded splendor of the year. No flower, in truth, may cheer the eager sight, No lonely bird is calling for its mate; We have the sense of earth’s forthcoming light, Spring broods above the hills, and we can wait.

The meadow does not heed the warmth returning, The starry coltsfoot still withholds her buds, The wishful eye, far-sighted and discerning, Can choose no spot of green amid the woods; There is no winsome odor in the winds, But with a pulse of living strength they blow, Though in some hollow still the traveler finds Half-sheltered from the sun, the lingering snow.

The Spring reveals herself in secret only, Thro’ hidden signs we guess her mystic power, The fields are bare, the woodlands wild and lonely, But lo! beneath the earth she hides the flower. The willows quicken at the river’s brim, The eager alder breaks her tawny buds, The upland hills are wrapt in hazes dim, And sweet, impulsive life has stirred the woods.

March by Dora Read Goodale

[trixie-and-ames]

The icicles now fringe the trees That swayed in summer's gentle breeze, When summer days were fair. –Dora Read Goodale #winterpoetry #poetrylovers https://www.instagram.com/p/CZDaHK2F7B2/?utm_medium=tumblr

[julesofnature]

“Crimson clover I discover By the garden gate, And the bees about her hover, But the robins wait.

Sing, robins, sing, Sing a roundelay,— 'Tis the latest flower of Spring Coming with the May!”

Dora Read Goodale

[artfortheages]

The modest, lowly violet In leaves of tender green is set; So rich she cannot hide from view, But covers all the bank with blue.

Dora Read Goodale—Spring Scatters Far and Wide.

[violettesiren]

When the fields are sweet with clover, And the woods are glad with song, When the brooks are running over, And the days are bright and long, Then from every nook and bower, Peeps the dainty strawberry flower.

When the dear, enchanting Summer Tosses beauties at our feet, She delights each weary comer With her berries, fresh and sweet: Springtide's blossoms, stored away, Ripen for us all to-day.

Strawberries by Dora Read Goodale

[violettesiren]

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. —George Herbert

June is a scarlet rose, The blossom of the year; In May, among the open woods, We watch the promise of her buds, Which still are hidden close;— The June-tide is not here!

June is a red, red rose, The blossom of the year; The winds and showers of May, too soon Are drifted to the verge of June, And summer heats disclose The passion which is here!

June is a burning rose, The blossom of the year; The restless winds among the woods Unseal the splendor of her buds, And magic airs disclose The light of Summer here!

June is a scarlet rose, The blossom of the year;— Her crimson crumpled petals lie To mark the footsteps of July,— Have peace,—the lily blows And other life is here.

June by Dora Read Goodale

[violettesiren]

April! April! are you here? Oh, how fresh the wind is blowing! See! the sky is bright and clear, Oh, how green the grass is growing! April! April! are you here?

April! April! is it you? See how fair the flowers are springing! Sun is warm and brooks are clear, Oh, how glad the birds are singing! April! April! is it you?

April! April! you are here! Though your smiling turn to weeping, Though your skies grow cold and drear, Though your gentle winds are sleeping, April! April! you are here!

April by Dora Read Goodale

[violettesiren]

What is so sweet as a midsummer day, When no sound greets the ear save a bird's happy lay, Or the rustling of leaves as the wind passes thro'; When the earth is so green, and the sky is so blue!

When the swallows in ecstasy dart thro' the air, When the breeze is so pure, and the flowers are so fair, When the grain is so golden, the farmer so gay, O what can compare with a midsummer day!

A Midsummer Day by Dora Read Goodale

[violettesiren]

I chanced upon a rose the other day, A pale and faded flower, forgotten long. And with it these unfinished verses lay, The faltering echo of a deeper song: —

A perfect day in June, — the golden sun Looks down upon the green and tangled way; The summer song and silence are as one, — The light and longing of a Summer’s day!

O untaught harmony of Summer days! The distant tinkle of a waterfall, The blue blue sky that deepens as you gaze. The wayward rose that blossoms by the wall!

Unspoiled and sweet in every country lane, All dewy cool in maiden pink she blooms, Still green and fragrant thro’ the Summer rain, When freer airs are thrilled with light perfumes.

She blossoms close beside the dusty way. Her heart the careless passer-by may see,— Sweet is her fragrance thro’ the burning day, But sweeter is her open secrecy!

Though he who will may pierce her leafy green, Where sits the brooding robin on its nest, The secret of her life is all unseen. Unknown the impulse of her sweet unrest.

All day the winds about her cool the air. Faint sounds the tinkle of the waterfall, — What is the sudden answer you may bear, O wayward rose, that blossoms by the wall?

Sweet Brier by Dora Read Goodale