Floralia/Salus/Walpurgis Night/May Eve/Sophia
May Eve is the festival of the dead in Portugal and Spain. In Germany it is Walpurgis Night [Walkpurgisnacht], dedicated to the Saxon goddess, Walpurga [Christian of the 8th century devoted to evangelizing pagan Germans]. On Walpurgis Night , 1990, the Brocken, the German witches’ holy mountain, was reclaimed by women’s groups.
— The Pagan Book of Days, Nigel Pennick
Sonnets of Orpheus, I, xiv — Rilke
We’re involved with flower, fruit, grapevine.
They speak more than the language of the year.
Out of the darkness a blaze of colors appears,
and one perhaps that has the jealous shine
Of the dead, those who strengthen the earth.
What do we know of the part they assume?
It’s long been their habit to marrow the loam
with their own free marrow through and through.
Now the one question: Is it done gladly?
The work of sullen slaves, does this fruit
thrust up, clenched, toward us, its masters?
Sleeping with roots, granting us only
out of their surplus this hybrid made of mute
strength and kisses — are they the masters?
For the flowers are great blessings — Christopher Smart
For the flowers are great blessings,
For the Lord made a Nosegay in the meadow with his disciples and preached up on the lily.
For the angels of God took it out of his hand and carried it to the Height . . .
For there is no Height in which there are not flowers.
For flowers have great virtues for all the sense.
For the flower glorified God and the root parries the adversary.
For the flowers have their angels even the words of God’s Creation.
For the warp and woof of flowers are worked by perpetual moving spirits.
For flowers are good both for the living and the dead.
For there is a language of flowers.
For there is a sound reasoning upon all flowers.
For elegant Phrases are nothing but flowers.
For flowers are peculiarly the poetry of Christ.
For flowers are medicinal.
For flowers are musical in ocular harmony.
For the right names of flowers are yet in heaven, God make gardeners better nomenclators.
For the Poorman’s nosegay is an introduction to a Prince …
Olympian gods, mark now my bedside lamp — Edna St. Vincent Millay
Olympian gods, mark now my bedside lamp
Blown out; and be advised too late that he
Whom you call sire is stolen into the camp
Of warring Earth, and lies abed with me.
Call out your golden hordes, the harm is done:
Enraptured in his great embrace I lie;
Shake heaven with spears, but I shall bear a son
Branded with godhead, heel and brow and thigh.
Whom think not to bedazzle or confound
With meteoric splendours or display
Of blackened moons or suns or the big sound
Of sudden thunder on a silent day;
Pain and compassion shall he know, being mine,—
Confusion never, that is half divine.
Sonnets from the Portuguese 44 — Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers
If you begin to see the Beauty inside of you, some very interesting things will develop: the freedom to be and the freedom to become. Remarkable.