21 Intoxicating Poems About Lavender

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Here are my favorite poems about lavender categorized:

  • Short poems about lavender
  • Poems about lavender and love
  • Poems about lavender flowers
  • Famous poems about lavender

So if you want the best poems about lavender, then you’re in the right place.

Let’s get right into it

21 Best Poems About Lavender (Handpicked)

Intoxicating Poems About Lavender

Beautiful, lovely girl among the flowers in the field. Lupins background. Nature and man.

Prepare to be intoxicated with the lovely scent of this beloved herb through our curated collection of lavender-themed poems!

We’ve got petite gems that capture the essence of this symbolic herb and ethereal verses penned by renowned poets across different generations that will bring you to lavender’s enchanting world.

If you’re seeking for a quick dose of lavender-infused joy or a deeper appreciation for the impact this herb has had on literature, our anthology has something for everyone

Let’s celebrate the allure, serenity, and poetic magic that lavender brings to our lives.

Keep scrolling and enjoy!

My #1 Favorite Poem About Lavender

Beautiful young woman with white Lolita dress with European garden Japanese fashion

“Lavender’s for Ladies” by Patrick R. Chalmers

Lavender’s for ladies, an’ they grows it in the garden;
Lavender’s for ladies, an’ its sweet an’ dry an’ blue;
But the swallows leave the steeple an’ the skies begin to harden,
For now’s the time o’ lavender, an’ now’s the time o’ rue!

“Lavender, lavender, buy my sweet lavender,”
All down the street a woman will cry;
But when she trundles
The sweet-smellin’ bundles
When she calls lavender—swallows must fly!

Lavender’s for ladies (Heaven love their pretty faces);
Lavender’s for ladies, they can sniff it at their ease,
An’ they put it on their counterpins and o’ their pillowcases,
An’ dreams about their true-loves an’ o’ ships that cross the seas!

“Lavender, lavender, buy my sweet lavender,”
Thus the old woman will quaver an’ call
All through the city—
It’s blue an’ it’s pretty,
But brown’s the beech-tree an’ mist over all!

Lavender’s for ladies, so they puts it in their presses;
Lavender’s for ladies, Joan an’ Mary. Jill and Jane;
So they lays it in their muslins an’ their lawny Sunday dresses,
An’ keeps ’em fresh as April till their loves come ‘ome again!

“Lavender, lavender, buy my sweet lavender,”
Still the old woman will wheeze and will cry.
Give ‘er a copper
An’ p’r’aps it will stop ‘her,
For when she calls lavender summer must die!

Short Poems About Lavender

blonde girl in lavender field in summer enjoying vacation

“Lavender Lace” by Hilda Worthington Smith

Up the slope of the beach
The green combers race;
On the border of each
Is lavender lace.

Woven of opaline
Bubbles and sand,
Shining an instant,
Lace edges the land.

The froth patterns crumble,
Recede without trace;
Till the next wave to tumble
Spreads lavender lace.

“Sea-Lavender.” by H. Hailstone

Where blooms sea-lavender?
‘Tis at the rosy-headed sea-pink’s side,
That calleth us betwixt the falling tide
Across the mere.

Above my sweet-heart’s home
Whistleth the curlew with his hollow bill,
While warns the many-voiced concourse shrill
Of feast-time come.

There may I dream so still,
As droops the sunlight ‘neath a fleecy cloud,
And hazes of the eve begin t’ o’ershroud
Cliff, spire, and mill.

But when red watch-fires rain
From out the torch-house o’er each shattered spar,
And the hoarse thunders roll, O then afar
Would I remain!

“The Lavender Flower” by Lady Lindsay

Lavender grey, lavender blue,
Perfume wrapt in the sky’s own hue;
Lavender blue, lavender grey,
Love in Memory lives alway.

Lavender grey, lavender blue,
Sweet is remembrance if love be true;
Lavender blue, lavender grey,
Sweeter, methinks, is the love of to-day.

woman in lavender field

“A Wreath of Buds and Lavender” by Philip Henry Savage

Death has a power to fright the soul,
And unseat courage from control.

But when, by love and sorrow led,
I passed youe door and looked, with dread
The symbol of the dead;

And found, in place of black dispair,
Which I all-looked for, hanging there
A wreath of buds and lavender;

I blessed the heart that would out-brave,
For love, the terror of the grave.

“Lavender” by Eleanour Norton

We roamed between the lavender
Her slender hand in mine:
And listened to the nightingale
That made the night divine!

I plucked a sprig of lavender
And kneeling at her feet,
I vowed she was as fragrant,
And swore she was as sweet!

But now the paths are desolate
Those maiden feet have throd:
I roam between the lavender,
And think of her with God!

“Lavender’s Blue” by Walter Crane


Lavender’s blue, diddle, diddle!
Lavender’s green;
When I am king, diddle, diddle!
You shall be queen.


Call up your men, diddle, diddle!
Set them to work;
Some to the plough, diddle, diddle!
Some to the cart.


Some to make hay, diddle, diddle!
Some to cut corn;
While you and I, diddle, diddle!
Keep ourselves warm.

Poems About Lavender and Love

beautiful young girl in a white dress and a straw hat on a field of purple flowers

“Lavender” by Archie Austin Coates

The twilight hangs like smoke in the streets,
Pearly, veiling all the stretches in illusion;
And the new-lit lamps are the glow of hearts
That grope unseeing and unseen.
At the corner a lean young girl offers me lavender,
Offers me youth and romance to hold in my palm, closed—thus.
She gives dreams to the world,
She who knows nought of dreams—
Gives gardens, and waters, and the young shy moon
Hung in the laurels;
Gives the smoke of evening in the willows,
And the complaining stream,
And the lavender’s subtle reawakening of old, dead thoughts.
These, all these she gives, this lean girl—
(A shawl is over her head and her eyes look into the darkness).
What does she know of dreams?
How more happy is she than I who have dreamed,
And may dream no more!

“Lad’s Love and Lavender” by Esther Lilian Duff

Lad’s love and lavender,
Rosemary and rue,
I picked them in a posy
And I offered them to you.

It was only lad’s love,
But surely it was true;
Only wild grey lavender,
But fragrant as it grew.
I plucked the sprig of rosemary
For memory of you:
And was it to complete the tale
I tied it up with rue?

Lad’s love and lavender,
Rosemary and rue,
I picked them in a posy
And I offered them to you

“Lavender” by Anonymous

How prone we are to hide and hoard
Each little treasure time has stored,
To tell of happy hours!
We lay aside with tender care
A tattered book, a lock of hair,
A bunch of faded flowers.

When death has led with silent hand
Our darlings to the “Silent Land,”
Awhile we sit bereft;
But time goes on; anon we rise,
Our dead are buried from our eyes,
We gather what is left.

The books they loved, the songs they sang,
The little flute whose music rang
So cheerily of old;
The pictures we had watched them paint,
The last plucked flower, with odor faint,
That fell from fingers cold.

We smooth and fold with reverent care
The robes they living used to wear;
And painful pulses stir
As o’er the relics of our dead,
With bitter rain of tears, we spread
Pale purple lavender.

And when we come in after years,
With only tender April tears
On cheeks once white with care,
To look on treasures put away
Despairing on that far-off day,
A subtile scent is there.

Dew-wet and fresh we gather them,
These fragrant flowers; now every stem
Is bare of all its bloom:
Tear-wet and sweet we strewed them here
To lend our relics, sacred, dear,
Their beautiful perfume.

The scent abides on book and lute,
On curl and flower, and with its mute
But eloquent appeal
It wins from us a deeper sob
For our lost dead, a sharper throb
Than we are wont to feel.

It whispers of the “long ago;”
Its love, its loss, its aching woe,
And buried sorrows stir;
And tears like those we shed of old
Roll down our cheeks as we behold
Our faded lavender.

Poems About Lavender Flowers

beautiful magic bride in lavender field

“Sweet Lavender” by Miss Agnes Strickland

Sweet lavender! I love thy flower
Of meek and modest blue,
Which meets the morn and evening hour
The storm, the sunshine, and the shower,
And changeth not its hue.

In cottage-maid’s paterre thou’rt seen
In simple touching grace;
And in the garden of the queen,
‘Midst costly plants and blossoms sheen,
Thou also hast a place.

The rose, with bright and peerless bloom,
Attracteth many eyes;
But while her glories and perfume
Expire before brief summer’s doom,
Thy fragrance never dies.

Thou art not like the fickle train,
Our adverse fate’s estrange;
Who, in the day of grief and pain,
Are found deceitful, light, and vain,
For thou dost never change.

But thou art emblem of the friend,
Who whatsoe’er our lot,
The balm of faithful love will lend,
And, true and constant to the end,
May die, but alters not.

“The Lavender Beds” by W.B Rand

The garden was pleasant with old-fashioned flowers,
The sunflowers and hollyhocks stood up like towers;
There were dark turncap lilies and jessamine rare,
And sweet thyme and marjoram scented the air.

The moon made the sun-dial tell the time wrong;
‘Twas too late in the year for nightinggale’s song;
The box-trees were clipped, and the alleys were straight,
Till you came to the shrubbery hard by the gate.

The fairies stepped up of the lavender beds,
With mop-caps, or wigs, on their quaint little heads;
My lord had a sword and my lady a fan;
The music struck up and the dancing began.

I watched them go through with a grave minuet;
Wherever they foot the dew was not wet;
They bowed and they curtsied, the brave and the fair;
And laughter like chirping of crickets was there.

Then all on a sudden a church clock struck loud:
A flutter, a shiver, was seen in the crowd,
The cock screw, the wind woke, the trees tossed their heads,
And the fairy folk hid in the lavender beds.

“Lavender and Linen” by Christie Deas

Odorous purple bloom,
Faint filling all the room;
How memory doth meet the quaint perfume —
Old thoughts resume.

Dreaming, I see once more
An open cottage door;
A bright wise, household hearth; a china store
A sanded floor.

A cheerful, wise old face
Nods in the same old place,
Of one who left example to her race,
Of soul’s true grace.

The busy spinning hands
Of one who understands
To do her best beseems her Lord’s command
So plies her strands.

The linen folded by,
So added ply by ply;
In white sheets, scented, pressing sweet and dry
These flowers lie.

Dreaming, the vision’s read;
The last earth-prayer said;
A white sheet, scented, folded o’er the head;
At rest the dead.

While by this old bureau,
Where they lie white as snow,
Dear Grannie’s scented sheets still seem to shew
The way to go.

A beautiful girl in a long yellow dress against the background of a blooming purple lupine field and a bright sunset sky.

“Lavender” by Wilfrid Blair

Grey walls that lichen stains,
That take the sun and the rains,
Old, stately, and wise;
Clipt yews, old lawns flag-bordered,
In ancient ways yet ordered;
South walks where the loud bees plies
Daylong till Summer dies:—
Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.

Gay cottage gardens, glad,
Comely, unkempt, and mad,
Jumbled, jolly, and quaint;
Nooks where some old man dozes;
Currants and beans and roses
Mingling without restraint;
A wicket that long lacks paint;—
Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.

Sprawling for elbow-room,
Spearing straight spikes of bloom,
Clean, wayward, and tough;
Sweet and tall and slender,
True, enduring, and tender,
Buoyant and bold and bluff,
Simplest, loveliest stuff;—
Thus grows Lavender in England, England

“Lavender.” by Katharine Tynan

There’s a clump of lavender
In the convent garden old,
Alive with the pilferer
Who wears a coat of gold.

He swings and he sways
As he sucks his sweet.
All through a honeyed haze
His wings cling and his feet.

By the grey-blue lavender
Fra Placid comes and goes—
Sets on the grass-plot there
His linen all in rows.

The Lord God’s altar-cloth
Whereon is laid white bread
For starving souls and both
The white wine and the red.

The marble Mother and Child
Look down from a green space;
Holy and undefiled,
They give the garden grace.

There, when the dews began
And the sun ripened the peach,
Fra Placid, saristan,
Laid his fair cloths to bleach.

In the fresh morning time,
May Christ all souls assoil!
The bell ringing for Prime
Summoned him to new toil.

For hours he dusted and swept
Yea, he had little ease,
At the noontide he slept,
His head drooped to his knees.

About the vesper hour
He woke and slept again,
Forgetting the sudden shower,
The thieving, wandering men.

Until, wide-waked at last,
The linen came to mind;
He ran with anxious haste,
Fearing no cloths to find.

There by the lavender
He spied a wonderous sight:
The pedestal was bare,
Queen Mary walked in white.

She walked in still air
Over the shining grass,
The spikes of lavender
Bent low as she did pass.

No more in her embrace
She clasped her sweetest Son.
He leapt on the grassy space
As a lamb might leap and run.

He skipped like a white lamb
Upon the daisied sod.
Played many a merry game,
The little Lamb of God.

He gathered with delight
The lavender, leaf and flower,
And on the linen white,
He shook it in a shower.

Placid, the sacristan,
Fell on his face afraid,
Tears down his old cheek ran—
Dear God! Dear God! he said.

Dear God, dear God! he wept;
See how thy table-cloth
Was well guarded and kept
While I gave way to sloth.

The bell called him to prayer,
He went obediently:
‘Twere well that all my care
Had such sweet strewings, said he.

Famous Poems About Lavender

Fantasy girl in a fairy garden. Young elf in a beautiful purple dress with a long train. Creative colors artistic processing

“Sweet Lavender” by CAM. W

‘Tis a tone of pleasant music, and it comes across the hills,
Over gardens floating, pastoral vales, and sportive rills;
Up, up the defile, homesteads fair and winding roads arc pass’d,
“O Lavender—sweet Lavender” is clearly heard at last.

And forth she steps the peasant girl with basket on her arm,
Singing loud that summer word whose name breathes many a charm;
“Twelve bunches for a penny, twelve,” she adds with plaintive cry—
“O Lavender—sweet Lavender, my bunches who will buy?”

The purchasers are many, for the rich perfume they prize,
By hoarded relics, tokens dear, the annual gift-flower lies;
And mourners seek the pensive hue to strew around the bed,
And cerements white enshrouding their beloved and hallowed dead.

Beneath the shadow of the Cross on consecrated ground,
There silently the wreaths they place upon a green grass mound;
And as the sounds steal nearer, and the Lord’s Own Acre fill, Some broken heart to Jesus pleads, submissive to His Will.

The voice of of hope and comfort on the wings of Seraphs borne,
Is heard beneath the Cross by the tempest-tost forlon;
The sky is full of perfume as the incensed Prayer ascends,
Above the blessed dead to Him, Whose Mercy never ends.

“A Handful of Lavender” by Lizette Woodworth Reese

The old house stands deserted, gray,
With sharpened gables high in air,
And deep-set lattices, all gay
With massive arch and framework rare;
And o’er it is a silence laid,
That feeling, one grows sore afraid.

The eaves are dark with heavy vines;
The steep roof wears a coat of moss;
The walls are touched with dim designs
Of shadows moving slow across;
The balconies are damp with weeds,
Lifting as close as streamside reeds.

The garden is a loved retreat
Of melancholy flowers, of lone
And wild-mouthed herbs, in companies sweet,
‘Mid desolate green grasses thrown;
And in its gaps the hoar stone wall
Lets sprays of tangled ivy fall.

The pebbled paths drag, here and there,
Old lichened faces, overspun
With silver spider-threads—they wear
A silence sad to look upon:
It is so long since happy feet
Made them to thrill with pressure sweet.

‘Mid drear but fragrant shrubs there stands
A saint of old made mute in stone,
With tender eyes and yearning hands,
And mouth formed in a sorrow lone;
‘T is thick with dust, as long ago
‘T was thick with fairest blooms that grow.

Swallows are whirring here and there;
And oft a little soft wind blows
A hundred odors down the air;
The bees hum ’round the red, last rose;
And ceaselessly the crickets shrill
Their tunes, and yet, it seems so still.

Or else, from out the distance steals,
Half heard, the tramp of horses, or
The bleak and harsh stir of slow wheels
Bound cityward; but more and more,
As these are hushed, or yet increase,
About the old house clings its peace.

“Lavender” by Alfred Noyes

Lavender lavender
That makes your linen sweet;
The hawker brings his basket
Down the sooty street:
The dirty doors and pavements
Are simmering in the heat:
He brings a dream to London,
And drags his weary feet.

Lavender lavender,
From where the bee hums
To the loud roar of London,
With purple dreams he comes,
From raggéd London slums,
With a basket full of lavender
And purple dreams he comes.

Is it nought to you that hear him?
With the old strange cry
The weary hawker passes,
And some will come and buy,
And some will let him pass away
And only heave a sigh,
But most will neither heed nor hear
When dreams go by.

Lavender lavender!
His songs were fair and sweet,
He brought us harvests out of heaven,
Full sheaves of radiant wheat;
He brought us keys to Paradise,
And hawked them thro’ the street;
He brought his dreams to London,
And dragged his weary feet.

Lavender lavender!
He is gone. The sunset glows;
But through the brain of London
The mystic fragrance flows.
Each raggéd alley knows,
The land he left behind him,
The land to which he goes.

cute girl in a beautiful dress, brown hair

“Lavender Lady” by W.B. Rand

Light Lady Lavender
Went to wed a Scavenger,
All the boys and girls in town
Laughed at Lady Lavender.

Light Lady Lavender
Hadn’t any provender,
All the boys and girls in town
Cried for Lady Lavender.

Lavender Lady got rich again,
And lived in a palace in Lavender Lane;
Flowers and provender!
Sweet Lady Lavender
Lived in a palace in Lavender Lane!

Lady Lavender is kind and gay,
Lavender House is not a long way;
Puddings and pies,
And turkeys’ thighs,
And peacocks’ tails, too all over eyes!

Ask for her up, ask for her down,
If ever you go to London Town:
In all the nation
There’s no relation
So kind as she is in London town!

“When you saw the New Moon pass”
(Loud laugh the Scavenger),
“Did you look at her through glass,
Proud Madam Lavender?”

“Stab my heart through with your horn!”
Laughed Lady Lavender
To the New Moon all forlon,
Light Lady Lavender.

She fell sad, and he fell sick,
Proud Lady Lavender.
O the snow fell fast and thick,
Poor Lady Lavender!

“Take the broom and sweep the street,
Proud Lady Lavender;”
O but she had dainty feet,
Soft Lady Lavender.

“Sweep you must and sweep you shall,
Soft Lady Lavender,
Up the Mall and down the Mall,
Proud Lady Lavender.

“Have you done your sweeping yet,
Proud Madam Scavenger?
Are your slippers cold and wet?”
Poor Lady Lavender!

“Wet is wet, and cold is cold,”
Wept Lady Lavender,
But the broom had turned to gold—
Loud laughed the Scavenger

“Take your sampler, Madam Witch,
Laid up in lavender;
Do you see a golden stitch,
And a silver P in provender?”

Silver and gold for a golden broom,
Rich Lady Lavender;
Then she danced all round the room,
Light Lady Lavender.

Take the New Moon for a cup,
Witch-lady Lavender;
Ladle the gold and silver cup,
Proud Lady Lavender.

“Here’s an angel-piece for you,”
Laughed Lady Lavender;
“Here’s a golden guinea too,”
Kind Lady Lavender!

Now we are safe and sound
(China plates and provender),
Now we’re on Tom Tiddler’s Ground,—
Laugh, Lady Lavender!

“English Lavender” by Warren Cheney

Through the open window the hot air brings,
Slow and incessant, the long-drawn cry
Of the fakir, who, down on the sidewalk, sings,
In commending his wares to the passers-by,—
“O lavender, English lavender!”

Small sort of song that, but somehow in tune
With the breathless heat of the fiery day;
And the dreamy air of the summer noon
Grows dreamier, hearing him chant his lay
Of lavender, English lavender.

It is strange we old fellows, who fancy in truth
The love-life within us long withered and dead,
Can be startled and brought face to face with our youth,
With a random word by a stranger said,
Like “Lavender, English lavender.”

For the cry, and the breath of perfume that floats
From the dead leaves down in his basket there,
Have stirred from my heart-strings the echoing notes
Of the past with its passion and joy and care.
Oh, the lavender, English lavender!

I am thankful, ah! thankful, I can not trace
One bitter thought with the sweetness blent;
There comes to me only her girlish face
And her Quaker dress with its fleeting scent
Of lavender, English lavender.

She was young—and loved me—but adverse fate
Divided—the usual way—and so,
I have only the memory shelved in state,
Like the treasures that house-wives shelve and strew
With lavender, English lavender.

That only,—but yet after all these years,
This ghost of a love rises up unsought,—
And my eyes brim over with foolish tears,
When a careless word brings the sudden thought
Of lavender, English lavender.

“Dried Lavender” by May Probyn

Oh, the sweet dried lavender!
Oh, the more than scent in it!
The butterflies and bees astir,
The pipe of linnets pent in it!
Brick and smoke and mire have fled—
Time and space between drop dead—
Oh, the sweet dried lavender!
I can hear the pigeon whirr—
I can count the quarters chiming—
I can watch the ivy climbing—
Clinging close from eave to basement,
Clasping, shadowing all the casement.
Within against the raftered wall,
The oaken press stands black and tall—
I see its folded linen store
Gleam athwart its open door—
I smell the lavender fresh-dried
Strewing all the shelves inside.
Unmade is yet your shroud, mother—
Not yet you are in heaven—
You count the sheets aloud, mother,
And smooth and lay them even.

Your jingling keys, with music low,
Measure your steppings to and fro.
And, sorting, piling, still you croon
Some soft, half-uttered cradle tune.
Oh, the sweet dried lavender!
I hear the wise old tabby purr,
Curled on the window-sill asleep,
Where winter sunlights slant and creep.
I hear, without, familiar babel
Of turkeys at the barn-door,
I, perched upon the kitchen table
In socks and pinafore.
My head is all a golden mop;
Upon my cheek the round tears drop;
The frosty morning weather nips
My nose and toes and finger tips.
Mother, so quick you leave your sheets!
The shelf of sugars and of sweets
So well you rifle for my meal,
Almond and fig and candied peel!
You chafe my little palms, mother—
You kiss away their cold—
You take me in your arms, mother—
And I am five years old.