Snowdrop Poetry Novels & Stories

Master Graden had a collection of poetry books in his home library and she had read them during her free time. The poem was titled, "A Red, Red Rose" composed by Scotland's national poet, Robert Burns. It described the poet's deep love for his beloved and promised that his love would last longer than human life and even the planet itself, remaining fresh and constant forever. The words were so moving and Melissa felt her heart warmed instantly.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; .....

Or not enough? With a sigh, she dipped her pen in ink and began to write, her emotions finding shape in verse: A withered rose, forgotten in the vase, Still thirsts for light, for water, and for grace. Though petals fall and vibrant hues have fled, A fragrance lingers where beauty once was bred. The gardener passes, blind to silent plea, His gaze fixed firm on fresher blooms than she. Yet still she stands, her purpose not yet done, A quiet dignity beneath the sun.

“Trust my boys.” - - - A loud crack sounded and I shot up from where I was laying on the grass, soaked through to my skin. I fell asleep? 'It happened again.' Alice sighed. 'You were talking to me about flowers and then you were gone.' I looked around and the entire garden was soaked with rain. How was I sleeping in this? I thought as I stood from the wet ground. Leaving the garden, I noticed something white behind the snapdragons. “The snowdrops?” I said out loud and then a voice came back to me.

“It’s part of a poem. ‘Give the buried flower a dream; Make the settled snowbank steam.’ We studied this poem when we were in elementary school. I have no idea why he felt the need to write it down.” 'Come with rain, O loud Southwester! Bring the singer, bring the nester; 'Give the buried flower a dream; Make the settled snowbank steam.' Indeed, it was a poem taught in elementary schools.

you're the Neville _ The remnants of summer in Edelweiss were nearly gone now, but some traces still lingered. As I sat cross-legged by myself on the slope leading from the road to the gorgeous poppy fields in full bloom, warm rays from the setting sun cast a mysterious honey glow on the flowers, as if they were sharing an elaborate secret. I smiled. I eyed the pair of birds swooping around playfully in the sky with acute jealousy. Not trapped at all by their own emotions. So free.

The kind of cold that didn’t bite—just reminded you that you were alive. The snow was falling again, but it wasn’t a blizzard. There was no wind, no chaos, just delicate flakes drifting down like a lullaby, turning the world soft around the edges. Streetlamps glowed gold in the dark, their halos shimmering against the snowfall. It was so quiet I could hear the crunch of our boots and the rhythmic jingle of Pockets’ collar.

I threw my white hooded cloak around my naked shoulders and collected a wicker basket on the crook of my elbow, before heading out barefoot to my favourite clearing. It was the very early spring, the ground was carpeted with crystal frost and partially opened snowdrops bordered the narrow pathways. The tiny Eden was a clear, cool pool, crusted with ice, veiled with a thin, low-hanging mist and surrounded by tall ferns and bracken. I gulped the cold dry air, and it clung to the insides of my lungs before I exhaled, watching it leave my lips in fragile ghosts of fog. Under the fabric of my cloak my body trembled with the fresh thrill of the cold, goosebumps patterned my thighs and my nipples s

“Delicate leaves, tender and fair in bloom, Crimson liquid dances, fragrance fading in the room. Rouge is replaced with powder so white, A cluster of blossoms hidden from sight.” The man with glasses studied it for a long while before saying, “This poem is about flowers. Since we entered this building, the most common flower we’ve seen is the mandrake flower. The first line is likely hinting at us to find them, but the rest… I can’t quite figure it out.” I kept turning the imagery over in my mind. Mandrake flowers, crimson liquid, dance… Suddenly, it clicked.

Her tiny frame shaking in my arms as she cries. “Oh, the Spring it is a coming. And the trees are softly blooming And the wild mountain thyme blooms along the purple heather. Will ye go, laddie, go? And we will all go together. To pick wild mountain thyme all along the purple heather Will ye go, laddie, go? I shall build my love a bower over by yon crystal fountain. And in it I shall pile all the treasures of the mountain. Will ye go, laddie, go? And we will all go together.