Poem of the Day

This one makes me think of my mother, who is a Master Gardener.

In the Garden
By Helena Coleman

The roses blushed a deeper red,
   The lilies looked more saintly,
The sweet-alyssum hung its head,
   And smiled and frowned most quaintly;
The daisies even, at my feet,
Were strangely knowing, strangely sweet.

The hollyhocks against the wall,
   So serious and old-fashioned,
Were all astir, the larkspur tall
   Seemed really quite impassioned.
I pondered, but I could not guess
What made their sudden consciousness.

Where’er I looked, their little eyes
   Were eager, wise, and tender,
As if they had some new surprise
   Or sympathy to render;
But, turning round all unaware,
I saw that she was standing there!

Current Tea: Diva blend (Ceylon black tea with hints of hazelnut and chocolate)

This is another one I picked up when looking for poets only posted once before.

Candle-Flame
By Helena Coleman

Hast singed thy pretty wings, poor moth?
   Fret not; some moths there be
That wander all the weary night,
   Longing in vain to see
      The light.

Hast felt the scorching flame, poor heart?
   Grieve not; some hearts exist
That know not, grow not to be strong,
   And weep not, having missed
      The song.

My thought process for today:

1) I’d like to post a sonnet.
2) I’ll head over to Sonnet Central.
3) Let’s check out the Canadian sonnets since I’ve been reading Canadian author Margaret Atwood recently.
4) Oh, I like the name Helena.
5) Bingo!

Does that qualify as a method to the madness?

Vanished Years
By Helena Coleman

She sitteth in the sunshine, old and grey,
Her faded kerchief crossed upon her breast,
Her withered form in sober colors dressed,
Her thoughts fixed ever on the Far-away;
She scarcely sees the children at their play,
But looks beyond them to the crimsoning West
And still beyond, where everlasting rest
Remains to close and crown her little day.
But on her tranquil and unconscious face,
In lines engraved by joy no less than tears,
The story of her pilgrimage we trace,
For Youth, quick-flying, left his dearer part,
And all the fragrance of the vanished years,
Imperishable, lies within her heart.