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Exigencies
time is too great
to make use of
hived in glass
you may be making honey
not love
a beautiful woman
cut off her own breast
out of convenience
Poems on the topic: honey
Poems on the topic “honey” on Poets.by.
Consilience
her lies sing of wheat and honey
and then all turd
a strange rude life there is
among them
February romance
Dine me, wine me,
know me and Valentine me,
please me, give me
a spoonful of honey
for my cold.
Coated names
You called me a sweet name today,
You coated it in sugar and honey
The sweet taste of nectar made me squeal with happiness,
My pillow catching my screams of yearning for the next time you'd call me another sweet name.
Once I heard your voice once more blood rushed to my cheeks
My oh my what did I do to deserve you,
You rushed into my life like the hot feeling of my ears becoming hot when you whispered so dearly to me,
I was yours once you moved my hair behind my ear with a swift touch,
Come back and touch me once more I'd wish
gaze
take these hands and lead me
to the windows of your soul.
in those autumn depths,
let me find myself in these pools
of rich amber, glistening with
the splendour of a thousand suns,
of great mystery and beauty
which cannot be gauged by
worldly measures alone. let me
be the subject of your gaze,
sweet and dripping with honey,
hexagons moulded into crescent
moons grant me the tenderness
of a mother to her newborn child;
i experience gentle affection,
through these all-seeing orbs of yours,
Twelve Hokku on a Canadian Theme 5
The sugar maples ...
Benevolent goddesses
Who offer honey.
Song
You are as gold
as the half-ripe grain
that merges to gold again,
as white as the white rain
that beats through
the half-opened flowers
of the great flower tufts
thick on the black limbs
of an Illyrian apple bough.
Can honey distill such fragrance
as your bright hair--
for your face is as fair as rain,
yet as rain that lies clear
on white honey-comb,
lends radiance to the white wax,
so your hair on your brow
Valentine
Too high, too high to pluck
My heart shall swing.
A fruit no bee shall suck,
No wasp shall sting.
If on some night of cold
It falls to ground
In apple-leaves of gold
I'll wrap it round.
And I shall seal it up
With spice and salt,
In a carven silver cup,
In a deep vault.
Before my eyes are blind
And my lips mute,
I must eat core and rind
Of that same fruit.
Waste
So rich a treasure in yourself you bring,
That some is spilt and wasted on the way,
As low clouds, halting, on wild seas astray,
Cheat the thick, thirsty blossoms of the spring.
And some I waste. But in our later years
We shall remember how, too prodigal,
We let the precious drops of honey fall,
And pay for them at last with useless tears.
Ah, waste, waste, waste ! However much there is,
There's not too much for bare and mortal days,
That now, receding in youth's golden haze,
Seem dim but ever full eternities.
But there's an end ! Take heed, lest you and I
Have wasted wealth to think on when we die.
Davis Matlock
Suppose it is nothing but the hive:
That there are drones and workers
And queens, and nothing but storing honey—
(Material things as well as culture and wisdom)—
For the next generation, this generation never living,
Except as it swarms in the sun-light of youth,
Strengthening its wings on what has been gathered,
And tasting, on the way to the hive
From the clover field, the delicate spoil.
Suppose all this, and suppose the truth:
That the nature of man is greater
Than nature’s need in the hive;
And you must bear the burden of life,
As well as the urge from your spirit’s excess—
Well, I say to live it out like a god
Sure of immortal life, though you are in doubt,
Formalist
As men whose bones are wind-blown dust, have sung,
Let me sing now!
I'll sing of gourds, and goads, of honey, and the plough.
I am a raw uneasy parvenu,
I am uncertain of my time.
How can I pour the liquor of new days
In the old pipes of Rhyme?
Spoken to Adonis
Have you observed that one can measure
Poetic worth of words in terms of pleasure?
Honey and milk have been sweet food so long,
These words are naturalized in Song.
And from my joy in you the time is ripe
That I find lyric value for your pipe.
What tender pleasure do your lips invoke,
Moving in gracious meditation as you smoke!
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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