The three-day Roman festival of Floralia commemorates the goddess Flora, deity of flowers and the pleasures of youth. Her feast day was noted for its license, and medallions showing various positions of sexual enjoyment were distributed to the revelers. Beans and other seeds were thrown in to the crowds, denoting fertility and fecundity.
— The Pagan Book Of Days, Nigel Pennick
Physical pleasure is a sensual experience no different from pure seeing or the pure sensation with which a fine fruit fills the tongue; it is a great unending experience, which is given us, a knowing of the world, the fullness and the glory of all knowing. And not our acceptance of it is bad; the bad thing is that most people misuse and squander this experience and apply it as a stimulant at the tired spots of their lives and as distraction instead of a rallying toward exalted moments.
— Rilke, Letters To a Young Poet
Sonnets to Orpheus II, 14 — Rilke
See the flowers, so faithful to Earth.
We know their fate because we share it.
Were they to grieve for their wilting,
that grief would be ours to feel.
There’s a lightness in things. Only we move forever burdened,
pressing ourselves into everything, obsessed by weight.
How strange and devouring our ways must seem
to those for whom life is enough.
If you could enter their dreaming and dream with them deeply,
you would come back different to a different day,
moving so easily from that common depth.
Or maybe just stay there: they would bloom and welcome you,
all those brothers and sisters tossing in the meadows,
and you would be one of them.
Flower-gathering — 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 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.
Party Three: Love, VII — Emily Dickinson
I HIDE myself within my flower,
That wearing on your breast,
You, unsuspecting, wear me too —
And angels know the rest.
I hide myself within my flower,
That, fading from your vase,
You, unsuspecting, feel for me
Almost a loneliness.
Again and Again — Rilke
Again and again, however we know the landscape of love
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
among the flowers, face to face with the sky.
So wild flowers will come up where you are.
You have been stony for too many years.
Try something different.
If this is amazing, what happens to the amazing part to keep it from happening? Good and Bad coming at you, bringing something remarkable as you are.? That will continue to unfold. You can not stop it. Except by hiding. Do not hide, please.