The Easter Flower
by Claude McKay
Far from this foreign Easter damp and chilly
My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground,
Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily
Soft-scented in the air for yards around;
Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf!
Just like a fragile bell of silver rime,
It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief
In the young pregnant year at Easter-time;
And many thought it was a sacred sign,
And some called it the resurrection flower;
And I, a pagan, worshiped at its shrine,
Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power.
Art is the unceasing effort to compete with the beauty of flowers – and never succeeding.
— Gian Carlo Menotti
A Something in a Summer’s Day
“A something in a summer’s Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer’s noon —
A depth — an Azure — a perfume —
And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see —
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle — shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me —
The wizard fingers never rest —
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed —
Still rears the East her amber Flag —
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red —
So looking on — the night — the morn
Conclude the wonder gay —
And I meet, coming thro’ the dews
Another summer’s Day!”
“Flowers don’t tell, they show.” – Stephanie Skeem.
“It’s only the giving that makes you what you are.” —- Ian Anderson