Capturing the divine shades of blue, enhancing the dew droplets of rain on the petals, and over-all just taking in the entire beauty of the flower. Ami likes to take pictures of the beautiful flowers surrounding her in their natural environment. She aims to preserve their beauty in her pictures before they start to fade away because nothing lasts forever. Most of the pictures she took were taken at the famous tourist spot in Baguio City : Burnham Park. The others were taken at random places such as the road she usually walks along with her sister on their way to school. It may be kind of awkward to take pictures of flowers at Burnham Park with most of the people staring at you like " What is she doing?" but she manages to "secretly" take these pictures without people looking. Anyway, here are some of the pictures she took:
Flower Of Love - Poem by Oscar Wilde Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.
From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song, Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong.
Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed, You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.
I had trod the road which Dante treading saw the suns of seven circles shine, Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, as they opened to the Florentine.
And the mighty nations would have crowned me, who am crownless now and without name, And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of Fame.
I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young, And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre's strings are ever strung.
Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine, With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in mine.
And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the dove, Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;
Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart, Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.
For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth, And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.
Yet I am not sorry that I loved you -ah! what else had I a boy to do? - For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.
Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is past, Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last.
And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blindworm battens on the root, And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Passion bears no fruit.
Ah! what else had I to do but love you? God's own mother was less dear to me, And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an argent lily from the sea.
I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days, I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better than the poet's crown of bays.
Flower - Poem by Olivia Taylor Flower, flower grow for me, Become a flower from a seed, Grow your roots and a stem, Let the water come right in
Flower, flower you are true, You make me happy when I am blue, You became a flower from a seed, You did all that just for me
A Word And A Flower - Poem by Sandra Fowler You claim my thoughts, Though you have never seen your name in frost. I think the window of a distant train Still mirrors you like a poem in its glass.
Through strong, blue dusk, You come to me with a word and a flower. Snow to the eaves alone brings Wednesday back. The only gold is in the sunset, Friend.
The Easter Flower - Poem 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 Eastertime;
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.
The Flower - Poem by George Herbert How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! ev'n as the flowers in spring; To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasures bring. Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivl'd heart Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone Quite under ground; as flowers depart To see their mother-root, when they have blown; Where they together All the hard weather Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
These are thy wonders, Lord of power, Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell And up to heaven in an hour; Making a chiming of a passing-bell. We say amiss, This or that is: Thy word is all, if we could spell.
O that I once past changing were, Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither! Many a spring I shoot up fair, Off'ring at heav'n, growing and groaning thither: Nor doth my flower Want a spring-shower, My sins and I joining together:
But while I grow in a straight line, Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own, Thy anger comes, and I decline: What frost to that? what pole is not the zone, Where all things burn, When thou dost turn, And the least frown of thine is shown?
And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing: O my only light, It cannot be That I am her On whom thy tempests fell all night.
These are thy wonders, Lord of love, To make us see we are but flowers that glide: Which when we once can find and prove, Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide. Who would be more, Swelling through store, Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.
Flower God, God Of The Spring - Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson FLOWER god, god of the spring, beautiful, bountiful, Cold-dyed shield in the sky, lover of versicles, Here I wander in April Cold, grey-headed; and still to my Heart, Spring comes with a bound, Spring the deliverer, Spring, song-leader in woods, chorally resonant; Spring, flower-planter in meadows, Child-conductor in willowy Fields deep dotted with bloom, daisies and crocuses: Here that child from his heart drinks of eternity: O child, happy are children! She still smiles on their innocence, She, dear mother in God, fostering violets, Fills earth full of her scents, voices and violins: Thus one cunning in music Wakes old chords in the memory: Thus fair earth in the Spring leads her performances. One more touch of the bow, smell of the virginal Green - one more, and my bosom Feels new life with an ecstasy.
Flower To Flower - Poem by Kranthi Pothineni I came across one flower While walking in a garden It saw me and gave a smile I too smiled and walked Each day in garden I smiled
One day I gazed at flower At its plant and roots closely I observed its dance in wind And its dance made me sing It made me smile all my time
Everyday I went to flower Smiled with it and came back My days went like seconds Nights passed like years Flower made me its lover
So I wrote songs on its dance On its lovely beautiful smile All about its charming beauty And my state of dying slowly In which I am smiling daily
One day I saw flower singing In the garden while jogging Song reveled its moving off From my garden to a house Of loved one from its past
I smiled on all my songs While writing a new song Its song of flower to flower Which I gave to my flower When departing from my lover
A Red Flower - Poem by Claude McKay Your lips are like a southern lily red, Wet with the soft rain-kisses of the night, In which the brown bee buries deep its head, When still the dawn's a silver sea of light.
Your lips betray the secret of your soul, The dark delicious essence that is you, A mystery of life, the flaming goal I seek through mazy pathways strange and new.
Your lips are the red symbol of a dream, What visions of warm lilies they impart, That line the green bank of a fair blue stream, With butterflies and bees close to each heart!
Brown bees that murmur sounds of music rare, That softly fall upon the langourous breeze, Wafting them gently on the quiet air Among untended avenues of trees.
O were I hovering, a bee, to probe Deep down within your scented heart, fair flower, Enfolded by your soft vermilion robe, Amorous of sweets, for but one perfect hour!
Flower-Gathering - Poem by Robert Frost 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 gray 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.
A Flower Given To My Daughter - Poem by James Joyce Frail the white rose and frail are Her hands that gave Whose soul is sere and paler Than time's wan wave.
Rosefrail and fair -- yet frailest A wonder wild In gentle eyes thou veilest, My blueveined child.
A Flower In The Rain - Poem by Robert Rorabeck I want to fall on you like rain upon a wildflower Opening new reason from you Scaring all the old bees away from Pollinating your bed Scaring all the fake men off who Can only stand the sun So it’s just me and you in the Meadow The rabbits in the hole The grasses are wet and beginning to bow The forest is damp and sleepy And in the meadow I bend down and kiss your petals wetly Falling all over you Letting your pistil slip into my mouth Sucking off your honey, Almost plucking you But not going so far Just pulling you so that you can feel Your roots leaving To let you almost taste My world in the sky So afterwards you can go down Believing The words on my lips When I fall on my knees for you A flower in the rain.
A Flower Given To My Daughter - Poem by James Joyce Frail the white rose and frail are Her hands that gave Whose soul is sere and paler Than time's wan wave.
Rosefrail and fair -- yet frailest A wonder wild In gentle eyes thou veilest, My blueveined child.
Climbing West Of Lotus Flower Peak - Poem by Li PoAmongst the grandeur of Hua Shan I climb to the Flower Peak, and fancy I see fairies and immortals carrying lotus in their sacred white hands, robes flowing they fly filling the sky with colour as they rise to the palace of heaven, inviting me to go to the cloud stage and see Wei Shu-ching, guardian angel of Hua Shan; so dreamily I go with them riding to the sky on the back of wild geese which call as they fly, but when we look below at Loyang, not so clear because of the mist, everywhere could be seen looting armies, which took Loyang, creating chaos and madness with blood flowing everywhere; like animals of prey rebel army men made into officials with caps and robes to match.
As If Some Little Arctic Flower - Poem by Emily Dickinson As if some little Arctic flower Upon the polar hem-- Went wandering down the Latitudes Until it puzzled came To continents of summer-- To firmaments of sun-- To strange, bright crowds of flowers-- And birds, of foreign tongue! I say, As if this little flower To Eden, wandered in-- What then? Why nothing, Only, your inference therefrom!