Pretty Poetry For Everyday

Hello tulips

21 Beautifully Short Flower Poems

Inside: Beautifully short flower poems that show you the true beauty of nature.

If you’re a nature guy or gal, you know that some of the most intricately detailed specimens in nature are flowers. They are so beautiful and so effortless, as with anything that grows naturally, and they inspire so many emotions.

There’s a flower that represents every kind of relationship, every kind of love, and every season of life. You can find a flower for anyone for any occasion and it will speak volumes to the love and thought you give to that person. As you flower shop, consider adding a card to the flowers you choose to accompany the gift with some words about the flower itself. It’s easy to know what to write in your card with these short flower poem ideas that you can copy in a moment.

Maybe you’re not giving flowers but instead you are simply a flower lover or want to write a card to someone who is. This is a perfect use for flower poems as well, and I think these will do the trick for whatever your purpose is.

Creating artwork with these poems or hanging one on the wall in your home can be great ideas as well as to use these.

A bundle of short Flower Poems

Something I’ve learned over time is that everyone loves flowers. Even people who say they don’t. My mother always says, “they don’t last very long, I don’t need them,” but I know that on the occasion my dad has come home with flowers, she feels so special. Just to have them on her counter as a reminder that she is loved and thought about.

Flowers are so simple but hold so much weight and something so special for something that grows on its own in nature.

Check out these flower poems to remember how sweet a simple flower really is.

What Do Different Flowers Represent

Whether you’re going to a bridal shower, a birthday, a funeral, or visiting someone’s home for the first time, there’s a flower to represent the way that you value them. They make a great gift for anyone and everyone, and I know you’re going to find the right flower for the occasion.

But in order to find the right flower for what you need for your friend (or for yourself) you need a pretty hefty guide to what different flowers mean. So here’s a complete guide before we get into some of these poems about them so you know where they come from and what they represent in nature and in poetry.

Orange: Understanding and appreciation.
Pink: Love, less intense than red.
Yellow: Happiness.
Red: Declaration of love.

Peonies: Romance and marriage.

Lilies: Generally sympathy flowers, so mainly seen at funerals. They can also mean rebirth so the can be used in happy scenarios, but mainly in mournful ones.

Coral: Friendship.
Yellow: Technically these represent infidelity. But since yellow in the floral world is more of a friendship color, it’s acceptable to gift to your friends.
Pink: Grace and gentleness.
White: Purity and innocence.
Red: Romance, of course. The perfect go-to gift for your special someone that will never get old.

Daisies: Innocence.

Gardenia: Revealing a crush.

Marigolds: For those in mourning.

Of course there are so many other flowers types and colors, but at the foundation of the flowers you tend to find while flower shopping, these are some of the most common that you’re going to run into daily.

Beautiful Poems About Flowers

1. Flowers

Some men never think of it.
You did. You’d come along
And say you’d nearly brought me flowers
But something had gone wrong.The shop was closed. Or you had doubts –
The sort that minds like ours
Dream up incessantly. You thought
I might not want your flowers.It made me smile and hug you then.
Now I can only smile.
But, look, the flowers you nearly brought
Have lasted all this while.

By Wendy Cope

2. Please Don’t

tell the flowers—they think
the sun loves them.
The grass is under the same
simple-minded impression

about the rain, the fog, the dew.
And when the wind blows,
it feels so good
they lose control of themselves

and swobtoggle wildly
around, bumping accidentally into their
slender neighbors.
Forgetful little lotus-eaters,

hydroholics, drawing nourishment up
through stems into their
thin green skin,

high on the expensive
chemistry of mitochondrial explosion,
believing that the dirt
loves them, the night, the stars—

reaching down a little deeper
with their pale albino roots,
all Dizzy
Gillespie with the utter
sufficiency of everything.

They don’t imagine lawn
mowers, the four stomachs
of the cow, or human beings with boots
who stop to marvel

at their exsquisite
flexibility and color.
They persist in their soft-headed

hallucination of happiness.
But please don’t mention it.
Not yet. Tell me
what would you possibly gain

from being right?

By Tony Hoagland

a bunch of daffodils

3. I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

By William Wordsworth

4. The Flower That Smiles To-Day

The flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies;
All that we wish to stay
Tempts and then flies.
What is this world’s delight?
Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.
Virtue, how frail it is!
Friendship how rare!
Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair!
But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy, and all
Which ours we call.
Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst flowers are gay,
Whilst eyes that change ere night
Make glad the day;
Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou—and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.

By Percy Shelley

5. Relentlessly Craving

poem, poem be strong
like a shock wave, Grieg’s Concerto in A Minor
put down roots, find the source, bloom, bear fruit
come to life, poem, I need your blood

poem, poem be as perilously lovely
as the drunken woman in the painting by Munch
what counts are only the base colors, yellow, black, red
what counts is fire

there is a time for hope
and a time for despair

what counts is fire
if you have no flesh
you do not know love
nor do you know death

poem, poem be in the sun
in the eye of the world
in the turning of bread into motion
in the constant decay that is the condition of all synthesis
in the blood

fire, be

there is a time for hope
and a time for despair
what counts is fire and ice

poem, poem be like the dark night of the soul

By Julia Fiedorczuk

Two sunflowers with the blue sky behind

6. The Flower

Once in a golden hour
I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower,
The people said, a weed.

To and fro they went
Thro’ my garden bower,
And muttering discontent
Cursed me and my flower.

Then it grew so tall
It wore a crown of light,
But thieves from o’er the wall
Stole the seed by night.

Sow’d it far and wide
By every town and tower,
Till all the people cried,
“Splendid is the flower!”

Read my little fable:
He that runs may read.
Most can raise the flowers now,
For all have got the seed.

And some are pretty enough,
And some are poor indeed;
And now again the people
Call it but a weed.

By Alfred Lord Tennyson

7. Thanks to Flowers

Thanks to flowers
blooming in paintings, on carpets, pottery,
fabrics of dresses and draperies or wherever
the real or invented colors and shapes
of flowers lift the mood of a scene,
as they are snipped from bushes, gathered
in cordless bunches, tied in ribbons
or arranged in rare bouquets for precious vases.
Perfect by nature for gift and centerpiece.

By Kate Farrell

Sweet & Short Flower Poems

8. The Lent Lily

‘Tis spring; come out to ramble
The hilly brakes around,
For under thorn and bramble
About the hollow ground
The primroses are found.

And there’s the windflower chilly
With all the winds at play,
And there’s the Lenten lily
That has not long to stay
And dies on Easter day.

And since till girls go maying
You find the primrose still,
And find the windflower playing
With every wind at will,
But not the daffodil,

Bring baskets now, and sally
Upon the spring’s array,
And bear from hill and valley
The daffodil away
That dies on Easter day.

By A.E Housman

9. Tulips

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage——
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free——
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

By Sylvia Plath

10. Flowers

They are autographs of angels, penned
In Nature’s green-leaved book, in blended tints,
Borrowed from rainbows and the sunset skies,
And written everywhere–on plain and hill,
In lonely dells, ‘mid crowded haunts of men;
On the broad prairies, where no eye save God’s
May read their silent, sacred mysteries. Thank God for flowers!
They gladden human hearts; Seraphic breathings part their fragrant lips
With whisperings of Heaven.

By Albert Laighton

11. Flower-Gathering

I left you in the morning,
And in the morning glow,
You walked a way beside me
To make me sad to go.
Do you know me in the gloaming,
Gaunt and dusty grey with roaming?
Are you dumb because you know me not,
Or dumb because you know?

All for me? And not a question
For the faded flowers gay
That could take me from beside you
For the ages of a day?
They are yours, and be the measure
Of their worth for you to treasure,
The measure of the little while
That I’ve been long away.

By Robert Frost

12. Tall Nettles

Tall nettles cover up, as they have done
These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough
Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:
Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.

This corner of the farmyard I like most:
As well as any bloom upon a flower
I like the dust on the nettles, never lost
Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.

By Helen Thomas

13. Roses

You write to me about roses,
About roses opening as roses die.
Always, you say, there are roses,
So that people get used to them
And cease to wonder.
Now I am on a hilltop,
Bare, with a few pine trees
Twisted by an inexhaustible wind,
By a wind that is never tired,
A wind that passes and passes and is never gone.
I cannot think what it would be like for the pine trees
If there were no wind. Your roses would not be happy on my hilltop.
They would be scornful of my huckleberry bushes
With their plain, blue fruit. They would not care for the white meadow-sweet
That leans against a rock.
Roses must have rich soil,
And careful pruning.
They must be sheltered from the wind and cold
And have stakes to lean upon.
They do not stand alone like the flames of vervain
On my windy hilltop. Roses are gifts for lovers.
Lovers have always had much to say about roses.
When you sent me a rose
Folded in a letter,
Did you know I would open it on a hilltop
Where the wind searches me
As it does the pine trees
And my skirts are brushing
The fine flame of the vervain?

By Louise Driscoll

14. To the Flowers

Bright little day stars
Scattered all over the earth,
Ye drape the house of mourning
And ye deck the hall of mirth.

Ye are gathered to grace the ballroom,
Ye are borne to the house of prayer,
Ye wither upon the snowy shroud,
Ye fade in the bride’s jeweled hair.

Ye are relics of bygone ages,
From Eden inherited,
To gladden the homes of the living,
And mourn on the graves of the dead.

By Martha Lavinia Hoffman

Pretty Poems

15. Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

By Mary Oliver

Man crossing the street with a bouquet of flowers written with a short flower poem card

16. Flowers

This morning I was walking upstairs
from the kitchen, carrying your
beautiful flowers, the flowers you

brought me last night, calla lilies
and something else, I am not
sure what to call them, white flowers,

of course you had no way of knowing
it has been years since I bought
white flowers—but now you have

and here they are again. I was carrying
your flowers and a coffee cup
and a soft yellow handbag and a book

of poems by a Chinese poet, in
which I had just read the words “come
or go but don’t just stand there

in the doorway,” as usual I was
carrying too many things, you
would have laughed if you saw me.

It seemed especially important
not to spill the coffee as I usually
do, as I turned up the stairs,

inside the whorl of the house as if
I were walking up inside the lilies.
I do not know how to hold all

the beauty and sorrow of my life.

By Cynthia Zarin

17. Flowers

They are fleeting.
They are fragile.
They require

little water.
They’ll surprise you.
They’ll remind you

that they aren’t
and they are you.

By Wendy Videlock

18. Delicate But Captivating

Vibrant, beautiful, and full of life.
She radiates positive energy while
she absorbs the warm rays and brightness of the sun
reflecting her image with purity, passion, and love.
When drizzled with a little rain it begins to tickle with delight
and blooms into a confident, vivacious flower.
It will stand up Tall amongst million of flowers with confidence
and humility above all.
It takes a special gardener to nurture his find, as he
knows that beauty so rare and precious will continue to
to blossom given the love, time, and affection it truly deserves.
He knows to cultivate it and treasure it so
it becomes his utmost valuable treasure.
Keeping her seeds from drifting to another garden
will forever be his challenge and commitment to
that once a delicate flower, but now a radiant and captivating woman.
God’s greatest creation!

By Lissette Alvarez Napoli

19. I Will Go Out and Look at the Flowers

There was one of my kin (of another day)
When the Riddle of Life defied her powers,
And her fretted heart rebelled, would say,
“I will go out and look at the flowers.” And after a while–like those who had quaffed
Of the cup that Helen distilled in her bowers,
Returned from the garden, she softly laughed–
“I have been out to look at the flowers!” My heart is so ill with the growth of ills
The world is sheaving, these harvest hours–
The sword that smites, and the shell that kills,
While Life lies charred ‘neath the burning towers! Nothing to do–it will be as Who wills?
Helpless to aid, how my hurt soul cowers!..
Let me drink of the cup that pure Beauty distills–
I will go out and look at the flowers!

By Edith Matilda Thomas

20. And Death Shall Have No Dominion Poem

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead man naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

By Dylan Thomas

Pink roses

21. My Pretty Rose Tree Poem

A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said ‘I’ve a pretty rose tree,’
And I passed the sweet flower o’er.

Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.

By William Blake

Famous Short Bouquet Poems I Adore

1.    The Flower That Smiles To-Day by Percy Shelley

The flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay

Tempts and then flies.

What is this world’s delight?

Lightning that mocks the night,

Brief even as bright.

2.    The Lent Lily by A.E. Housman

And there’s the windflower chilly

With all the winds at play,

And there’s the Lenten lily

That has not long to stay

And dies on Easter day.

And since till girls go maying

You find the primrose still,

And find the windflower playing

With every wind at will,

But not the daffodil

3.    Roses by George Eliot

You love the roses – so do I. I wish

The sky would rain down roses, as they rain

From off the shaken bush.  Why will it not?

Then all the valley would be pink and white

And soft to tread on. They would fall as light

As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be

Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!

Flowers and short flower poems are so sweet, but they carry a little punch. If you’re considering writing out or gifting someone a flower poem or want to buy them flowers, there’s so many options for you that speak about the tender beauty of a natural flower.

All of the different colors and shapes and characteristics of all of the different kinds of flowers really make them so precious. Read these sweet flower poems that are going to make you want to go to the garden section of your nearest home store.

Seeing all of the different people and life events that different flowers represent make me love them just a little more, considering that they are so much more relevant to life than we could imagine. Whatever phase of life you’re in, there’s a flower and short flower poem for you, so refresh your home with a vase of a bouquet of new flowers and remember how valued you are!

Lavenders are so sweet, read these lavender poems here.

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