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Nature Poems

Poem Suggestions

Nature Poems for Kids

  1. There's Many a Lonesome Daisy by Annette Wynne
  2. Morning by Anonymous
  3. Over in the Meadow by Olive A. Wadsworth
  4. The Wonderful World by William Brighty Rands
  5. Who Made the Stars? by Anonymous
  6. Turning Back by Amos Russel Wells
  7. Wishing by William Allingham
  8. Water Noises by Elizabeth Madox Roberts
  9. A Field Service by Ada A. Mosher

Famous Nature Poems

  1. I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud (The Daffodils) by William Wordsworth
  2. Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant
  3. The bee is not afraid of me by Emily Dickinson
  4. A Well by Emily Dickinson
  5. Mother Nature by Emily Dickinson
  6. Nature rarer uses yellow by Emily Dickinson
  7. The Wonderful World by William Brighty Rands
  8. The Gladness of Nature by William Cullen Bryant

Short Nature Poems

  1. Clod of the Earth by Anna Hempstead Branch
  2. Nature rarer uses yellow by Emily Dickinson
  3. The bee is not afraid of me by Emily Dickinson
  4. To my quick ear the leaves conferred by Emily Dickinson
  5. Beclouded by Emily Dickinson
  6. There's Many a Lonesome Daisy by Annette Wynne
  7. Morning by Anonymous
  8. Voice of the Sea by William Stanley Braithwaite
  9. Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins
  10. Friends by Abbie Farwell Brown
  11. Outdoor Peace by Anonymous
  12. Peace by by Amos Russel Wells
  13. Amico Suo by Herbert P. Horne
  14. My Request by James W. Whilt
  15. The Unattainable by Ruby Archer
  16. To Nature by Anna Hempstead Branch

Long Nature Poems

  1. Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant
  2. By Still Waters by Bliss Carman
  3. The Weed's Counsel by Bliss Carman
  4. On the Creek by Charles G. D. Roberts
  5. A Sabbath At Nahant by Hannah Flagg Gould
  6. Birch and Paddle by Charles G. D. Roberts
  7. God's Quiet by Anonymous
  8. The Battle Autumn of 1862 by John Greenleaf Whittier
  9. God is Everywhere by Joseph Hutton
  10. Over in the Meadow by Olive A. Wadsworth

Poems About Nature

  1. There's Many a Lonesome Daisy

    by Annette Wynne

    There's many a lonesome daisy where never a child can be,
    And many a lone little brooklet is dancing away to the sea;
    Yet children must stay in the city with only dull walls in view,
    As if there were never a brooklet and never a daisy grew!

  2. Morning

    by Anonymous

    Darkness is banished and morning is here;
    Gilding the heavens the sunbeams appear.

    Songs of thanksgiving arise in the air;
    Blossoms their beauty and perfume prepare

    Dewdrops like diamonds flash on the grass
    Bees in the meadows all hum as they pass.

    Nature awaketh to gladden our heart,
    For in her joyfulness all take a part.

  3. Nature rarer uses yellow

    by Emily Dickinson

    Nature rarer uses yellow
    Than another hue;
    Saves she all of that for sunsets, —
    Prodigal of blue,

    Spending scarlet like a woman,
    Yellow she affords
    Only scantly and selectly,
    Like a lover's words.

  4. Clod of the Earth

    by Anna Hempstead Branch

    Clod of the earth, that hardly knows
    How the warm sun comes or the cold rain goes,
    That lieth dumb and bleak and bare,
    It was thy thought begat the rose.

  5. Beclouded

    by Emily Dickinson

    The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
    A travelling flake of snow
    Across a barn or through a rut
    Debates if it will go.

    A narrow wind complains all day
    How some one treated him;
    Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
    Without her diadem.

  6. Children of Dream

    by Bliss Carman

    The black ash grows in the swampy ground,
    The white ash in the dry;
    The thrush he holds to the woodland bound,
    The hawk to the open sky.

    The trout he runs to the mountain brook,
    The swordfish keeps the sea;
    The brown bear knows where the blueberry grows.
    The clover calls the bee.

    The locust sings in the August noon,
    The frog in the April night;
    The iris loves the meadow-land,
    The laurel loves the height.

    And each will hold his tenure old
    Of earth and sun and stream,
    For all are creatures of desire
    And children of a dream.

  7. Over in the Meadow

    by Olive A. Wadsworth

    Over in the meadow,
    In the sand, in the sun,
    Lived an old mother toad
    And her little toadie one.
    "Wink!" said the mother;
    "I wink," said the one;
    So she winked and she blinked
    In the sand, in the sun.

    Over in the meadow,
    Where the stream runs blue,
    Lived an old mother fish
    And her little fishes two.
    "Swim!" said the mother;
    "We swim," said the two;
    So they swam and they leaped
    Where the stream runs blue.

    Over in the meadow,
    In a hole in a tree,
    Lived a mother bluebird
    And her little birdies three.
    "Sing!" said the mother;
    "We sing," said the three;
    So they sang and were glad
    In the hole in the tree.

    Over in the meadow,
    In a snug beehive,
    Lived a mother honeybee
    And her little honeys five.
    "Buzz!" said the mother;
    "We buzz," said the five;
    So they buzzed and they hummed
    In the snug beehive.

    Over in the meadow,
    Where the clear pools shine,
    Lived a green mother frog,
    And her little froggies nine.
    "Croak!" said the mother;
    "We croak," said the nine;
    So they croaked and they splashed
    Where the clear pools shine.

    Over in the meadow,
    In a sly little den,
    Lived a gray mother spider
    And her little spiders ten.
    "Spin!" said the mother;
    "We spin," said the ten;
    So they spun lace webs
    In their sly little den.

  8. The Wonderful World

    The Wonderful World
    The Wonderful World
    by Katherine Sturges Dodge
    by William Brighty Rands

    Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,
    With the wonderful water round you curled,
    And the wonderful grass upon your breast,
    World, you are beautifully dressed.

    The wonderful air is over me,
    And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree—
    It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
    And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.

    You friendly Earth, how far do you go,
    With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,
    With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles,
    And people upon you for thousands of miles?

    Ah! you are so great, and I am so small,
    I tremble to think of you, World, at all;
    And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,
    A whisper inside me seemed to say,
    "You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot:
    You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"

  9. The Gladness of Nature

    by William Cullen Bryant

    Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
    When our mother Nature laughs around;
    When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
    And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

    There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,
    And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;
    The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den,
    And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

    The clouds are at play in the azure space
    And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale,
    And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
    And there they roll on the easy gale.

    There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
    There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
    There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
    And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

    And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
    On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
    On the leaping waters and gay young isles;
    Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

  10. Mother Nature

    by Emily Dickinson

    Nature, the gentlest mother,
    Impatient of no child,
    The feeblest or the waywardest, —
    Her admonition mild

    In forest and the hill
    By traveller is heard,
    Restraining rampant squirrel
    Or too impetuous bird.

    How fair her conversation,
    A summer afternoon, —
    Her household, her assembly;
    And when the sun goes down

    Her voice among the aisles
    Incites the timid prayer
    Of the minutest cricket,
    The most unworthy flower.

    When all the children sleep
    She turns as long away
    As will suffice to light her lamps;
    Then, bending from the sky

    With infinite affection
    And infiniter care,
    Her golden finger on her lip,
    Wills silence everywhere.

  11. Response

    by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

    I said this morning, as I leaned and threw
    My shutters open to the Spring's surprise,
    "Tell me, O Earth, how is it that in you
    Year after year the same fresh feelings rise?
    How do you keep your young exultant glee?
    No more those sweet emotions come to me.

    "I note through all your fissures, how the tide
    Of healthful life goes leaping as of old.
    Your royal dawns retain their pomp and pride;
    Your sunsets lose no atom of their gold.
    How can this wonder be?" My soul's fine ear
    Leaned, listening, till a small voice answered near:

    "My days lapse never over into night;
    My nights encroach not on the rights of dawn.
    I rush not breathless after some delight;
    I waste no grief for any pleasure gone.
    My July noons burn not the entire year.
    Heart, hearken well!" Yes, yes; go on; I hear.

    "I do not strive to make my sunsets' gold
    Pave all the dim and distant realms of space.
    I do not bid my crimson dawns unfold
    To lend the midnight a fictitious grace.
    I break no law, for all God's laws are good.
    Heart, hast thou heard?" Yes, yes; and understood.

  12. The Battle Autumn of 1862

    by John Greenleaf Whittier

    The flags of war like storm-birds fly,
    The charging trumpets blow;
    Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,
    No earthquake strives below.

    And, calm and patient, Nature keeps
    Her ancient promise well,
    Though o’er her bloom and greenness sweeps
    The battle’s breath of hell.

    And still she walks in golden hours
    Through harvest-happy farms,
    And still she wears her fruits and flowers
    Like jewels on her arms.

    What mean the gladness of the plain,
    This joy of eve and morn,
    The mirth that shakes the beard of grain
    And yellow locks of corn?

    Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
    And hearts with hate are hot;
    But even-paced come round the years,
    And Nature changes not.

    She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
    With songs our groans of pain;
    She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
    The war-field’s crimson stain.

    Still, in the cannon’s pause, we hear
    Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm;
    Too near to God for doubt or fear,
    She shares the eternal calm.

    She knows the seed lies safe below
    The fires that blast and burn;
    For all the tears of blood we sow
    She waits the rich return.

    She sees with clearer eye than ours
    The good of suffering born,—
    The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
    And ripen like her corn.

    Oh, give to us, in times like these,
    The vision of her eyes;
    And make her fields and fruited trees
    Our golden prophecies!

    Oh, give to us her finer ear!
    Above this stormy din,
    We too would hear the bells of cheer
    Ring peace and freedom in.

  13. The Secret

    by Paul Laurence Dunbar

    What says the wind to the waving trees?
    What says the wave to the river?
    What means the sigh in the passing breeze?
    Why do the rushes quiver?
    Have you not heard the fainting cry
    Of the flowers that said "Good-bye, good-bye"?

    List how the gray dove moans and grieves
    Under the woodland cover;
    List to the drift of the falling leaves,
    List to the wail of the lover.
    Have you not caught the message heard
    Already by wave and breeze and bird?

    Come, come away to the river's bank,
    Come in the early morning;
    Come when the grass with dew is dank,
    There you will find the warning —
    A hint in the kiss of the quickening air
    Of the secret that birds and breezes bear.

  14. To Nature

    by Anna Hempstead Branch

    I love thee, sweet, because thou art so sure,
    Beautiful always. Never a mood of ours
    Has touched thine eyes with sorrow. Thou dost endure
    Tranquil amid thy sunshine and thy showers,
    And thou art rich and delicate and pure,
    Serene as Heaven dallying among flowers.

    A solace amid woe is this to me,
    That though we perish, still the world is fair.
    We cannot, by lamenting, darken thee,
    Nor with our tears wash out thy beauty rare.
    Still shall a violet evening please the sea,
    And a pale splendor satisfy the air.

  15. To my quick ear the leaves conferred

    by Emily Dickinson

    To my quick ear the leaves conferred;
    The bushes they were bells;
    I could not find a privacy
    From Nature's sentinels.

    In cave if I presumed to hide,
    The walls began to tell;
    Creation seemed a mighty crack
    To make me visible.

  16. Creation

    by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

    The impulse of all love is to create.
    God was so full of love, in his embrace
    He clasped the empty nothingness of space,
    And low! the solar system! High in state
    The mighty sun sat, so supreme and great
    With this same essence, one smile of its face
    Brought myriad forms of life forth; race on race
    From insects up to men.

    Through love, not hate,
    All that is grand in nature or in art
    Sprang into being. He who would build sublime
    And lasting works, to stand the test of time
    Must inspiration draw from his full heart.
    And he who loveth widely, well and much,
    The secret holds of the true master touch.

  17. An Easter Hymn

    by John Charles McNeill

    The Sun has come again and fed
    The lily's lamp with light,
    And raised from dust a rose, rich red,
    And a little star-flower, white;
    He also guards the Pleiades
    And holds his planets true:
    But we—we know not which of these
    The easier task to do.

    But, since from heaven he stoops to breathe
    A flower to balmy air,
    Surely our lives are not beneath
    The kindness of his care;
    And, as he guides the blade that gropes
    Up from the barren sod,
    So, from the ashes of our hopes,
    Will beauty grow toward God.

    Whate'er thy name, O Soul of Life,—
    We know but that thou art,—
    Thou seest, through all our waste of strife,
    One groping human heart,
    Weary of words and broken sight,
    But moved with deep accord
    To worship where thy lilies light
    The altar of its Lord.

  18. God is Everywhere

    by Joseph Hutton

    Oh! show me where is He,
    The high and holy One,
    To whom thou bend'st the knee,
    And prayest, "Thy will be done!"
    I hear thy song of praise,
    And lo! no form is near:
    Thine eyes I see thee raise,
    But where doth God appear?
    Oh! teach me who is God, and where his glories shine,
    That I may kneel and pray, and call thy Father mine.

    "Gaze on that arch above:
    The glittering vault admire.
    Who taught those orbs to move?
    Who lit their ceaseless fire?
    Who guides the moon to run
    In silence through the skies?
    Who bids that dawning sun
    In strength and beauty rise?
    There view immensity! behold! my God is there:
    The sun, the moon, the stars, his majesty declare.

    "See where the mountains rise:
    Where thundering torrents foam;
    Where, veiled in towering skies,
    The eagle makes his home:
    Where savage nature dwells,
    My God is present, too:
    Through all her wildest dells
    His footsteps I pursue:
    He reared those giant cliffs, supplies that dashing stream,
    Provides the daily food which stills the wild bird's scream.

    "Look on that world of waves,
    Where finny nations glide;
    Within whose deep, dark caves
    The ocean monsters hide:
    His power is sovereign there,
    To raise, to quell the storm;
    The depths his bounty share,
    Where sport the scaly swarm:
    Tempests and calms obey the same almighty voice,
    Which rules the earth and skies, and bids far worlds rejoice."

  19. Who Made the Stars?

    by Anonymous

    "Mother, who made the stars, which light
    The beautiful blue sky?
    Who made the moon, so clear and bright,
    That rises up so high?"

    "'T was God, my child, the Glorious One,
    He formed them by his power;
    He made alike the brilliant sun,
    And every leaf and flower.

    "He made your little feet to walk;
    Your sparkling eyes to see;
    Your busy, prattling tongue to talk,
    And limbs so light and free.

    "He paints each fragrant flower that blows,
    With loveliness and bloom;
    He gives the violet and the rose
    Their beauty and perfume.

    "Our various wants his hands supply;
    He guides us every hour;
    We're kept beneath his watchful eye,
    And guarded by his power.

    "Then let your little heart, my love,
    Its grateful homage pay
    To that kind Friend, who, from above,
    Thus guides you every day.

    "In all the changing scenes of time,
    On Him our hopes depend;
    In every age, in every clime,
    Our Father and our Friend."

  20. Nature's Hymn to the Deity

    by John Clare

    All nature owns with one accord
    The great and universal Lord:
    The sun proclaims him through the day,
    The moon when daylight drops away,
    The very darkness smiles to wear
    The stars that show us God is there,
    On moonlight seas soft gleams the sky
    And 'God is with us' waves reply.

    Winds breathe from God's abode 'we come,
    Storms louder own God is their home,
    And thunder yet with louder call,
    Sounds 'God is mightiest over all';
    Till earth right loath the proof to miss
    Echoes triumphantly 'He is,'
    And air and ocean makes reply,
    God reigns on earth, in air and sky.

    All nature owns with one accord
    The great and universal Lord:
    Insect and bird and tree and flower—
    The witnesses of every hour—
    Are pregnant with his prophesy
    And 'God is with us' all reply.
    The first link in the mighty plan
    Is still—and all upbraideth man.


    The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork.

    – Psalm 19:1
    KJV
  21. Turning Back

    by Amos Russel Wells

    When the blossom from the sun
    Turns its head away,
    Not for it do sunbeams run
    Through the shining day.

    When the blossom turns again
    To the sun's bright face,
    The forgiving sunlight then
    Pours its golden grace.

    When the round earth turns aside
    Into winter's cold,
    How the merry blossoms hide,
    How the world grows old!

    When the earth again in spring
    To the sun returns,
    How all heaven's pardoning
    Leaps and laughs and yearns!

    So when hearts of human kind
    Turn from God away,
    Gloom and misery they find
    Darkening the day.

    But if they will turn again
    And their God adore,
    As in nature so in men,
    All is well once more.

  22. Poems About the Love of Nature

  23. Friends

    by Abbie Farwell Brown

    How good to lie a little while
    And look up through the tree!
    The Sky is like a kind big smile
    Bent sweetly over me.

    The Sunshine flickers through the lace
    Of leaves above my head,
    And kisses me upon the face
    Like Mother, before bed.

    The Wind comes stealing o'er the grass
    To whisper pretty things;
    And though I cannot see him pass,
    I feel his careful wings.

    So many gentle Friends are near
    Whom one can scarcely see,
    A child should never feel a fear,
    Wherever he may be.

  24. The Deserted Pasture

    by Bliss Carman

    I love the stony pasture
    That no one else will have.
    The old gray rocks so friendly seem,
    So durable and brave.

    In tranquil contemplation
    It watches through the year,
    Seeing the frosty stars arise,
    The slender moons appear.

    Its music is the rain-wind,
    Its choristers the birds,
    And there are secrets in its heart
    Too wonderful for words.

    It keeps the bright-eyed creatures
    That play about its walls,
    Though long ago its milking herds
    Were banished from their stalls.

    Only the children come there,
    For buttercups in May,
    Or nuts in autumn, where it lies
    Dreaming the hours away.

    Long since its strength was given
    To making good increase,
    And now its soul is turned again
    To beauty and to peace.

    There in the early springtime
    The violets are blue,
    And adder-tongues in coats of gold
    Are garmented anew.

    There bayberry and aster
    Are crowded on its floors,
    When marching summer halts to praise
    The Lord of Out-of-doors.

    And there October passes
    In gorgeous livery, —
    In purple ash, and crimson oak,
    And golden tulip tree.

    And when the winds of winter
    Their bugle blasts begin,
    The snowy hosts of heaven arrive
    And pitch their tents therein.

  25. Nature

    by Jones Very

    Nature! my love for thee is deeper far
    Than strength of words though spirit-born can tell;
    For while I gaze they seem my soul to bar,
    That in thy widening streams would onward swell
    Bearing thy mirrored beauty on its breast,—
    Now, through thy lonely haunts unseen to glide,
    A motion that scarce knows itself from rest,
    With pictured flowers and branches on its tide;
    Then, by the noisy city's frowning wall,
    Whose armed heights within its waters gleam,
    To rush with answering voice to ocean's call,
    And mingle with the deep its swollen stream,
    Whose boundless bosom's calm alone can hold,
    That heaven of glory in thy skies unrolled.

  26. Amico Suo

    by Herbert P. Horne

    When on my country walks I go,
    I never am alone:
    Though whom 't were pleasure then to know
    Are gone, and you are gone;
    From every side discourses flow.

    There are rich counsels in the trees,
    And converse in the air;
    All magic thoughts in those and these
    Are what is sweet and rare;
    And everything that living is.

    But most I love the meaner sort,
    For they have voices too;
    Yet speak with tongues that never hurt,
    As ours are apt to do:
    The weeds, the grass, the common wort.

  27. Wishing

    by William Allingham

    Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose,
    A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the Spring!
    The stooping bough above me,
    The wandering bee to love me,
    The fern and moss to creep across,
    And the Elm-tree for our King!

    Nay,—stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree,
    A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay!
    The winds would set them dancing,
    The sun and moonshine glance in,
    The Birds would house among the boughs,
    And sweetly sing!

    O—no! I wish I were a Robin,
    A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go;
    Through forest, field, or garden,
    And ask no leave or pardon,
    Till Winter comes with icy thumbs
    To ruffle up our wing.

    Well—tell! Where should I fly to,
    Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?
    Before a day was over,
    Home comes the rover,
    For Mother's kiss,—sweeter this
    Than any other thing!

  28. The Dreamer

    by Madison Cawein

    Even as a child he loved to thrid the bowers,
    And mark the loafing sunlight's lazy laugh;
    Or, on each season, spell the epitaph
    Of its dead months repeated in their flowers;
    Or list the music of the strolling showers,
    Whose vagabond notes strummed through a twinkling staff,
    Or read the day's delivered monograph
    Through all the chapters of its dædal hours.
    Still with the same child-faith and child regard
    He looks on Nature, hearing at her heart,
    The Beautiful beat out the time and place,
    Through which no lesson of this life is hard,
    No struggle vain of science or of art,
    That dies with failure written on its face.

  29. Thanatopsis

    by William Cullen Bryant

    To him who in the love of nature holds
    Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
    A various language; for his gayer hours
    She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
    And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
    Into his darker musings, with a mild
    And healing sympathy, that steals away
    Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
    Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
    Over thy spirit, and sad images
    Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
    And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
    Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—

    Go forth, under the open sky, and list
    To Nature's teachings, while from all around—
    Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,—
    Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and thee
    The all-beholding sun shall see no more
    In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
    Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
    Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
    Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee,shall claim
    Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
    And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
    Thine individual being, shalt thou go
    To mix for ever with the elements,
    To be a brother to the insensible rock
    And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
    Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
    Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
    Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
    Shalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wish
    Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
    With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
    The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
    Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
    All in one mighty sepulchre.—The hills
    Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
    Sketching in pensive quietness between;
    The venerable woods—rivers that move
    In majesty, and the complaining brooks
    That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
    Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—
    Are but the solemn decorations all
    Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
    The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
    Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
    Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
    The globe are but a handful to the tribes
    That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
    Of morning—and the Barcan desert pierce,
    Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
    Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound,
    Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there:
    And millions in those solitudes, since first
    The flight of years began, have laid them down
    In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.
    So shalt thou rest—and what if thou withdraw
    Unheeded by the living—and no friend
    Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
    Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
    When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
    Plod on, and each one as before will chase
    His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
    Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,
    And make their bed with thee. As the long train
    Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
    The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
    In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
    And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,—
    Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
    By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

    So live, that when thy summons comes to join
    The innumerable caravan, that moves
    To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
    His chamber in the silent halls of death,
    Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
    Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
    By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
    Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
    About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

  30. A Sonnet for the Earth

    by William Stanley Braithwaite

    When I am weary for delight and spent,
    Even as a bird that tries too long its wings
    Will nest awhile amid the grass and sings,
    So I drop downward from the wonderment
    Of timelessness and space, in which were blent
    The wind, the sunshine and the wanderings
    Of all the planets — to the little things
    That are my grass and flowers and am content.

    Or if in flight my wings should beat so far
    From the kind grass that is so cool and deep
    That it must poise among the winds on high—
    Yet will I sing to thee from star to star,
    Piercing thy sunshine, and will always keep
    A song for thee amid the farthest sky.

  31. Poems About the Beauty of Nature

  32. Nature and Art

    by Paul Laurence Dunbar. To my friend Charles Booth Nettleton.

    I.

    The young queen Nature, ever sweet and fair,
    Once on a time fell upon evil days.
    From hearing oft herself discussed with praise,
    There grew within her heart the longing rare
    To see herself; and every passing air
    The warm desire fanned into lusty blaze.
    Full oft she sought this end by devious ways,
    But sought in vain, so fell she in despair,

    For none within her train nor by her side
    Could solve the task or give the envied boon.
    So day and night, beneath the sun and moon,
    She wandered to and fro unsatisfied,
    Till Art came by, a blithe inventive elf,
    And made a glass wherein she saw herself.

    II.

    Enrapt, the queen gazed on her glorious self,
    Then trembling with the thrill of sudden thought,
    Commanded that the skilful wight be brought
    That she might dower him with lands and pelf.
    Then out upon the silent sea-lapt shelf
    And up the hills and on the downs they sought
    Him who so well and wondrously had wrought;
    And with much search found and brought home the elf.
    But he put by all gifts with sad replies,

    And from his lips these words flowed forth like wine:
    "O queen, I want no gift but thee," he said.
    She heard and looked on him with love-lit eyes,
    Gave him her hand, low murmuring, "I am thine,"
    And at the morrow's dawning they were wed.

  33. The Poet and the Rest of Creation

    by Anonymous

    Up comes the sun with merry light
    And puts the dark to rout;
    It makes a very pleasant sight
    For me to write about.

    The river flowing to the sea
    Slips cheerily along;
    It's quite the proper thing for me
    To celebrate in song.

    The mountains rise on either hand
    Majestical to view,
    And I shall find them very grand
    To write a sonnet to.

    The ocean stretches far and wide,
    It fills a mighty cup;
    Some day I surely shall decide
    To write the ocean up.

    The city with its rapid stream
    Of mortals gay or wan,
    Will make a very jolly theme
    To write an ode upon.

    So many pretty things I see
    Within the horizon's hem,
    And all are waiting anxiously
    For me to write of them.

  34. The Oracle

    by Arthur Davison Ficke

    I lay upon the summer grass.
    A gold-haired, sunny child came by,
    And looked at me, as loath to pass,
    With questions in her lingering eye.

    She stopped and wavered, then drew near,
    (Ah! the pale gold around her head!)
    And o'er my shoulder stopped to peer.
    "Why do you read?" she said.

    "I read a poet of old time,
    Who sang through all his living hours—
    Beauty of earth—the streams, the flowers—
    And stars, more lovely than his rhyme.

    "And now I read him, since men go,
    Forgetful of these sweetest things;
    Since he and I love brooks that flow,
    And dawns, and bees, and flash of wings!"

    She stared at me with laughing look,
    Then clasped her hands upon my knees:
    "How strange to read it in a book!
    I could have told you all of these!"

  35. Pied Beauty

    by Gerard Manley Hopkins

    Glory be to God for dappled things —
    For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
    For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
    Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
    Landscape plotted and pieced — fold, fallow, and plough;
    And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

    All things counter, original, spare, strange;
    Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
    With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
    He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
    Praise him.

  36. By Still Waters

    by Bliss Carman

    My tent stands in a garden
    Of aster and goldenrod,
    Tilled by the rain and the sunshine,
    And sown by the hand of God, —
    An old New England pasture
    Abandoned to peace and time,
    And by the magic of beauty
    Reclaimed to the sublime.

    About it are golden woodlands
    Of tulip and hickory;
    On the open ridge behind it
    You may mount to a glimpse of sea, —
    The far-off, blue, Homeric
    Rim of the world's great shield,
    A border of boundless glamor
    For the soul's familiar field.

    In purple and gray-wrought lichen
    The boulders lie in the sun;
    Along its grassy footpath
    The white-tailed rabbits run.
    The crickets work and chirrup
    Through the still afternoon;
    And the owl calls from the hillside
    Under the frosty moon.

    The odorous wild grape clambers
    Over the tumbling wall,
    And through the autumnal quiet
    The chestnuts open and fall.
    Sharing time's freshness and fragrance,
    Part of the earth's great soul,
    Here man's spirit may ripen
    To wisdom serene and whole.

    Shall we not grow with the asters —
    Never reluctant nor sad,
    Not counting the cost of being,
    Living to dare and be glad?
    Shall we not lift with the crickets
    A chorus of ready cheer,
    Braving the frost of oblivion,
    Quick to be happy here?

    Is my will as sweet as the wild grape,
    Spreading delight on the air
    For the passer-by's enchantment,
    Subtle and unaware?
    Have I as brave a spirit,
    Sprung from the self-same mould,
    As this weed from its own contentment
    Lifting its shaft of gold?

    The deep red cones of the sumach
    And the woodbine's crimson's sprays
    Have bannered the common roadside
    For the pageant of passing days.
    These are the oracles Nature
    Fills with her holy breath,
    Giving them glory of color,
    Transcending the shadow of death.

    Here in the sifted sunlight
    A spirit seems to brood
    On the beauty and worth of being,
    In tranquil, instinctive mood;
    And the heart, filled full of gladness
    Such as the wise earth knows,
    Wells with a full thanksgiving
    For the gifts that life bestows:

    For the ancient and virile nurture
    Of the teeming primordial ground,
    For the splendid gospel of color,
    The rapt revelations of sound;
    For the morning-blue above us
    And the rusted gold of the fern,
    For the chickadee's call of valor
    Bidding the faint-heart turn;

    For fire and running water,
    Snowfall and summer rain;
    For sunsets and quiet meadows,
    The fruit and the standing grain;
    For the solemn hour of moonrise
    Over the crest of trees,
    When the mellow lights are kindled
    In the lamps of the centuries;

    For those who wrought aforetime,
    Led by the mystic strain
    To strive for the larger freedom,
    And live for the greater gain;
    For plenty of peace and playtime,
    The homely goods of earth,
    And for rare immaterial treasures
    Accounted of little worth;

    For art and learning and friendship,
    Where beneficent truth is supreme, —
    Those everlasting cities
    Built on the hills of dream;
    For all things growing and goodly
    That foster this life, and breed
    The immortal flower of wisdom
    Out of the mortal seed.

    But most of all for the spirit
    That cannot rest nor bide
    In stale and sterile convenience,
    Nor safety proven and tried,
    But still inspired and driven,
    Must seek what better may be,
    And up from the loveliest garden
    Must climb for a glimpse of sea.


    2bHe leadeth me beside the still waters. 3aHe restoreth my soul.

    – Psalm 23:2b-3a
    KJV
  37. The Weed's Counsel

    by Bliss Carman

    Said a traveller by the way
    Pausing, "What hast thou to say,
    Flower by the dusty road,
    That would ease a mortal's load?"

    Traveller, hearken unto me!
    I will tell thee how to see
    Beauties in the earth and sky
    Hidden from the careless eye.
    I will tell thee how to hear
    Nature's music wild and clear, —
    Songs of midday and of dark
    Such as many never mark,
    Lyrics of creation sung
    Ever since the world was young.

    And thereafter thou shalt know
    Neither weariness nor woe.

    Thou shalt see the dawn unfold
    Artistries of rose and gold,
    And the sunbeams on the sea
    Dancing with the wind for glee.
    The red lilies of the moors
    Shall be torches on the floors,

    Where the field-lark lifts his cry
    To rejoice the passer-by,
    In a wide world rimmed with blue
    Lovely as when time was new.

    And thereafter thou shalt fare
    Light of foot and free from care.

    I will teach thee how to find
    Lost enchantments of the mind
    All about thee, never guessed
    By indifferent unrest.
    Thy distracted thought shall learn
    Patience from the roadside fern,
    And a sweet philosophy
    From the flowering locust tree,—
    While thy heart shall not disdain
    The consolation of the rain.

    Not an acre but shall give
    Of its strength to help thee live.

    With the many-wintered sun
    Shall thy hardy course be run.
    And the bright new moon shall be
    A lamp to thy felicity.
    When green-mantled spring shall come
    Past thy door with flute and drum,
    And when over wood and swamp
    Autumn trails her scarlet pomp,

    No misgiving shalt thou know,
    Passing glad to rise and go.

    So thy days shall be unrolled
    Like a wondrous cloth of gold.

    When gray twilight with her star
    Makes a heaven that is not far,
    Touched with shadows and with dreams,
    Thou shalt hear the woodland streams
    Singing through the starry night
    Holy anthems of delight.
    So the ecstasy of earth
    Shall refresh thee as at birth,
    And thou shalt arise each morn
    Radiant with a soul reborn.

    And this wisdom of a day
    None shall ever take away.

    What the secret, what the clew
    The wayfarer must pursue?
    Only one thing he must have
    Who would share these transports brave.
    Love within his heart must dwell
    Like a bubbling roadside well,
    For a spring to quicken thought,
    Else my counsel comes to naught.
    For without that quickening trust
    We are less than roadside dust.

    This, O traveller, is my creed,—
    All the wisdom of the weed!

    Then the traveller set his pack
    Once more on his dusty back,
    And trudged on for many a mile
    Fronting fortune with a smile.

  38. Poems About Peacefulness and Calm in Nature

  39. God's Quiet

    by Amos Russel Wells

    The trees are standing silent in the sun
    Like priests of quietness. The river flows
    Its gentle way between its bushy banks,
    And seems the current of a peaceful dream.
    The bird-songs melt upon the placid air,
    And find a sweet solution. Hither floats
    A whiff of thistledown, as lightly borne
    As spirit upon spirit, as my soul,
    Afloat upon the brooding thought of God.

    How far away, how crudely strange and far,
    The very memory of earth's unrest,
    The crash of wills, the vehemence of greed.
    The blare of pride and groanings of despair!
    Here it is still and steady, quiet here
    Because so much of God is greatly here,
    So little of the littleness of man.
    The mind enlarges through the waiting woods,
    Expands amid the tree tops rises glad
    To wander on the galleys of the clouds
    Far over oceans of the upper blue
    To happy continents of love and light;
    Or, whimsically back withdrawn, it finds
    Another world low-hidden in the grass,
    A world of softest shadows, peopled full
    Of busy creatures, silent and serene.
    And yesterday I fretted! Yesterday,
    Nay, but an hour ago, I tore my heart
    With envy, sharp ambition, eating dread.
    O Thou Beneficence and Beauty, Thou,
    The Prince of Peace that rulest all in all,
    Forgive those tumults of Thy foolish child,
    And wrap me so about with quietness,
    So wrap around the central soul of me,
    That I may leave this pasture of Thy peace,
    And enter the world's discord hearing still
    The flawless armor of tranquillity.

  40. Outdoor Peace

    by Amos Russel Wells

    Have fears and worries vexed you?
    Go out among the trees;
    Think: He who made all these
    Will He not well protect you?

    Do thronging doubts molest you?
    Sit down there in the sun
    Where heaven's joys o'errun,
    And think how God has blessed you.

    Does some one scorn or slight you?
    Stand forth among the hills,
    Forget your petty ills
    Remember: God will right you.

    Do long, long sorrows grieve you?
    Look upward to the stars,
    And think: No anguish mars
    The home that will receive you.

  41. Peace

    by Amos Russel Wells

    The willows glimmer in the sun,
    The aspens tremble on the breeze,
    The singing ripples gently run
    Within the shadows of the trees.

    The quiet, meditative kine,
    The steady granite in the wall—
    What peace, contenting and benign,
    Enfolds and crystallizes all!

    Rebuked, ashamed, the faithless fret,
    The childish worry, fall away;
    My empty fear and vain regret
    Dissolve in God's assuring day.

    If peace on earth so fair and sweet
    Is gladly, freely, fully given,
    What joy some day our souls will greet,—
    The unimagined peace of heaven!

  42. Silent Voices of the Night

    by James W. Whilt

    When the shades of evening gather,
    And night's curtain's dropping low,
    And the stars they dot the heavens
    With their candles, all aglow;—

    Then to me there come the voices
    On each cool and fragrant breeze,
    Stealing in from every quarter,
    Creeping through among the trees.

    And these voices, ever silent,
    Scarcely heard, their steps so light;
    Yet, to me are ever welcome;
    Silent voices of the night.

    When within the noisy city,
    With its surging, busy crowd,
    The voices keep a-calling,
    And they seem to call so loud.

    I can hear them pleading, coaxing,
    And to me they call so plain,
    And they have the self-same message,
    "Yes, we want you back again."

    Voices of my little camp-fire,
    Voices of the woods and hills,
    Voices from the snow-capped mountains,
    Voices from the crystal-rills;

    And I ever hear them calling,
    'Till I feel like taking flight,
    Back to where the voices whisper,—
    Silent voices of the night.

    Oh! those voices, how I love them!
    Whether near or far away,
    And they ask me not to leave them,
    "Won't you please come back and stay?"

    "Come and we will try to please you,"
    Calling from their wildwood home,
    "Yes, my loved ones, I am coming,
    And from you no more will roam."

  43. Autumn Noon

    by George Hill

    All was so still that I could almost count
    The tinklings of the falling leaves. At times,
    Perchance, a nut was heard to drop, and then—
    As if it had slipp'd from him as he struck
    The meat—a squirrel's short and fretful bark.
    Anon, a troop of noisy, roving jays,
    Whisking their gaudy topknots, would surprise
    And seize upon the top of some tall tree,
    Shrieking, as if on purpose to enjoy
    The consternation of the noontide stillness.

    Roused by the din, the squirrel from his hole,
    Like some grave justice bent to keep the peace,
    Thrust his gray pate, much wondering what it meant
    And squatted near me on a stone, there bask'd
    A fly of larger breed and o'ergrown bulk,
    In the warm sunshine, vain of his green coat
    Of variable velvet laced with gold,
    That, ever and anon, would whisk about,
    Vexing the stillness with his buzzing din,
    As human fopling will do with his talk:
    And o'er the mossy post of an old fence,
    Lured from its crannies by the warmth, was spied
    A swarm of gay motes waltzing to a tune
    Of their own humming: quiet sounds, that serve
    More deeply to impress us with a sense
    Of silent loneliness and trackless ways.

  44. A Sabbath At Nahant

    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    The sun has thrown his morning beams
    Against the cliffs, that fence the waves,
    And down his mellow glory streams,
    Through narrow clefts and widening caves.

    The mossy rock, the foamy surge,
    The pebbly beach and grassy height,
    And site and cot, on ocean's verge,
    Are in a flood of sabbath light.

    And yet, no sabbath bell I hear
    Say "Come! come! come! the shepherd waits,
    Until his gathering flock draw near,
    To meet them at his temple gates!"

    These rocks, sublime in silence, stand
    And point us to the house of prayer!
    The deep gives out her loud command
    For man to praise her Ruler, there!

    The light, that is its author's smile,
    This balmy air, God's hallowed day,
    His finger in the heart the while,
    All to his altar show the way.

    Now, by the willows, o'er the green,
    With ready feet, I pass to seek
    His face, who laid this mighty scene,
    While all its parts his praises speak.

    Here, on the margin of the sea,
    The lane in simple beauty stands;
    That minds us of eternity—
    This, of the "house not made with hands"—

    Where different tribes, from lands afar,
    Shall to one happy home be led,
    By light that beamed from Bethlehem's star,
    To gather round one blessed Head.

    Stranger by stranger takes a seat;
    Our songs and aspirations blend;
    Through various ways, we come to meet
    Our common Parent, Lord and Friend.

    And, that our inmost wants may cease,
    And all the bosom's care and strife,
    The servant of the Prince of peace
    Presents to each the bread of life.

    It is an hour of sacred calm,
    Too bright and sweet on earth to waste,
    While Heaven is pouring down its balm,
    And manna falls, that all may taste.

    Father, when life's short vale is crossed,
    Within thy peaceful mansions grant,
    That all may find we have not lost
    This holy sabbath at Nahant!

  45. Poems About Exploring Nature

  46. The bee is not afraid of me

    by Emily Dickinson

    The bee is not afraid of me,
    I know the butterfly;
    The pretty people in the woods
    Receive me cordially.

    The brooks laugh louder when I come,
    The breezes madder play.
    Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?
    Wherefore, O summer's day?

  47. The Unattainable

    by Ruby Archer

    She treads the mystic trail
    That points to yonder peak;
    Her raptured eyes to the morning skies
    A world of homage speak.

    The sunshine wanders down,
    Half drowsed in dreams of mist,
    And wakes the trees with his breath of breeze
    To a sense of something missed.

    Wild roses touch her feet
    In timid, loving sighs;
    She wants no rose but the light that glows
    On the infinite morning skies.

    The harebells throng around
    A fairy chime to teach;
    She loves a fern she can just discern,—
    Her hand can never reach.

  48. I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

    by William Wordsworth

    I wandered lonely as a cloud
    That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
    When all at once I saw a crowd,
    A host, of golden daffodils;
    Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
    Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

    Continuous as the stars that shine
    And twinkle on the milky way,
    They stretched in never-ending line
    Along the margin of a bay:
    Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
    Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

    The waves beside them danced; but they
    Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
    A poet could not but be gay,
    In such a jocund company:
    I gazed—gazed—but little thought
    What wealth the show to me had brought:

    For oft, when on my couch I lie
    In vacant or in pensive mood,
    They flash upon that inward eye
    Which is the bliss of solitude;
    And then my heart with pleasure fills,
    And dances with the daffodils.

  49. Birch and Paddle

    by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

    Friend, those delights of ours
    Under the sun and showers,—

    Athrough the noonday blue
    Sliding our light canoe,

    Or floating, hushed, at eve,
    When the dim pine-tops grieve!

    What tonic days were they
    Where shy streams dart and play,—

    Where rivers brown and strong
    As caribou bound along,

    Break into angry parle
    Where wildcat rapids snarl,

    Subside, and like a snake
    Wind to the quiet lake!

    We've paddled furtively,
    Where giant boughs hide the sky,—

    Have stolen, and held our breath,
    Thro' coverts still as death,—

    Have left with wing unstirred
    The brooding phoebe-bird,

    And hardly caused a care
    In the water-spider's lair.

    For love of his clear pipe
    We've flushed the zigzag snipe,—

    Have chased in wilful mood
    The wood-duck's flapping brood,—

    Have spied the antlered moose
    Cropping the young green spruce,

    And watched him till betrayed
    By the kingfisher's sharp tirade.

    Quitting the bodeful shades
    We've run thro' sunnier glades,

    And dropping craft and heed
    Have bid our paddles speed.

    Where the mad rapids chafe
    We've shouted, steering safe,—

    With sinew tense, nerve keen,
    Shot thro' the roar, and seen,

    With spirit wild as theirs,
    The white waves leap-like hares.

    And then, with souls grown clear
    In that sweet atmosphere,

    With influences serene
    Our blood and brain washed clean,

    We've idled down the breast
    Of broadening tides at rest,

    And marked the winds, the birds,
    The bees, the far-off herds,

    Into a drowsy tune
    Transmute the afternoon.

    So, Friend, with ears and eyes
    Which shy divinities

    Have opened with their kiss,
    We need no balm but this,—

    A little space for dreams
    On care-unsullied streams,—

    'Mid task and toil, a space
    To dream on Nature's face!

  50. On the Creek

    by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

    Dear Heart, the noisy strife
    And bitter carpings cease.
    Here is the lap of life,
    Here are the lips of peace.

    Afar from stir of streets,
    The city's dust and din,
    What healing silence meets
    And greets us gliding in!

    Our light birch silent floats;
    Soundless the paddle dips.
    Yon sunbeam thick with motes
    Athro' the leafage slips,

    To light the iris wings
    Of dragon-flies alit
    On lily-leaves, and things
    Of gauze that float and flit.

    Above the water's brink
    Hush'd winds make summer riot;
    Our thirsty spirits drink
    Deep, deep, the summer quiet.

    We slip the world's gray husk,
    Emerge, and spread new plumes;
    In sunbeam-fretted dusk,
    Thro' populous golden glooms,

    Like thistledown we slide,
    Two disembodied dreams,—
    With spirits alert, wide-eyed,
    Explore the perfume-streams.

    For scents of various grass
    Stream down the veering breeze;
    Warm puffs of honey pass
    From flowering linden-trees;

    And fragrant gusts of gum,
    From clammy balm-tree buds,
    With fern-brake odors, come
    From intricate solitudes.

    The elm-tops are astir
    With flirt of idle wings.
    Hark to the grackles' chirr
    Whene'er an elm-bough swings!

    From off yon ash-limb sere
    Out-thrust amid green branches,
    Keen like an azure spear
    A kingfisher down launches.

    Far up the creek his calls
    And lessening laugh retreat;
    Again the silence falls,
    And soft the green hours fleet.

    They fleet with drowsy hum
    Of insects on the wing;—
    We sigh—the end must come!
    We taste our pleasure's sting.

    No more, then, need we try
    The rapture to regain.
    We feel our day slip by,
    And cling to it in vain.

    But, Dear, keep thou in mind
    These moments swift and sweet!
    Their memory thou shall find
    Illume the common street;

    And thro' the dust and din,
    Smiling, thy heart shall hear
    Quiet waters lapsing thin,
    And locusts shrilling clear.

  51. An Idyl

    Nature was moving in her realm,
    For I could hear her feet.

    – John Charles McNeill
    An Idyl
    by John Charles McNeill

    Upon a gnarly, knotty limb
    That fought the current's crest,
    Where shocks of reeds peeped o'er the brim,
    Wild wasps had glued their nest.

    And in a sprawling cypress' grot,
    Sheltered and safe from flood,
    Dirt-daubers each had chosen a spot
    To shape his house of mud.

    In a warm crevice of the bark
    A basking scorpion clung,
    With bright blue tail and red-rimmed eyes
    And yellow, twinkling tongue.

    A lunging trout flashed in the sun,
    To do some petty slaughter,
    And set the spiders all a-run
    On little stilts of water.

    Toward noon upon the swamp there stole A deep, cathedral hush,
    Save where, from sun-splocht bough and bole, Sweet thrush replied to thrush.

    An angler came to cast his fly
    Beneath a baffling tree.
    I smiled, when I had caught his eye,
    And he smiled back at me.

    When stretched beside a shady elm
    I watched the dozy heat,
    Nature was moving in her realm,
    For I could hear her feet.

  52. A Well

    by Emily Dickinson

    What mystery pervades a well!
    The water lives so far,
    Like neighbor from another world
    Residing in a jar.

    The grass does not appear afraid;
    I often wonder he
    Can stand so close and look so bold
    At what is dread to me.

    Related somehow they may be, —
    The sedge stands next the sea,
    Where he is floorless, yet of fear
    No evidence gives he.

    But nature is a stranger yet;
    The ones that cite her most
    Have never passed her haunted house,
    Nor simplified her ghost.

    To pity those that know her not
    Is helped by the regret
    That those who know her, know her less
    The nearer her they get.

  53. Water Noises

    by Elizabeth Madox Roberts

    When I am playing by myself,
    And all the boys are lost around,
    Then I can hear the water go;
    It makes a little talking sound.

    Along the rocks below the tree,
    I see it ripple up and wink;
    And I can hear it saying on,
    "And do you think? And do you think?"

    A bug shoots by that snaps and ticks,
    And a bird flies up beside the tree
    To go into the sky to sing.
    I hear it say, "Killdee, killdee!"

    Or else a yellow cow comes down
    To splash a while and have a drink.
    But when she goes I still can hear
    The water say, "And do you think?"

  54. Poems About Returning to Nature

  55. Back to Nature

    by E. F. Hayward

    I love to dwell in forest wild,
    Where giant pine trees pierce the sky;
    A beauty spot where Nature smiled,
    A fitting place to live and die;

    Where lake-waves kiss the sandy beach,
    The native haunt of timid deer;
    A sermon only God can preach,
    But every Human Soul may hear.

    The book of Nature opened wide
    Each page some wondrous Joy unfolds
    To him, whose conscience is his guide,
    He learns the secrets Nature holds.

    I've played my part in Life's affairs,
    I'm weary of the noise and strife;
    So let me put aside my cares,
    And live the quiet, simple life.

  56. Where the Mountain Sips the Sea

    by Charles James

    Where the mountain sips the sea,
    By an ocean wild and free,
    On a shore of grass and tree,
    Shall my future dwelling be.

    There at Nature's very heart
    She should unto me impart
    All the secrets of her art. —
    Then, awhile, I would depart.

    Seek the haunts of men again;
    Tell them how they can obtain
    Freedom from all fear and pain,
    So they list to this refrain: —

    "Come to me, O child of mine! —
    Why in misery repine
    When a happiness divine
    For the seeking can be thine?"

    Thus to children of her choice
    Constantly calls Nature's voice,
    Through the world's discordant noise. —
    Heed it, and you will rejoice.

  57. Voice of the Sea

    by William Stanley Braithwaite

    Voice of the sea that calls to me,
    Heart of the woods my own heart loves,
    I am part of your mystery—
    Moved by the soul your own soul moves.

    Dream of the stars in the night-sea's dome,
    Somewhere in your infinite space
    After the years I will come home,
    Back to your halls to claim my place.

  58. Content

    by Madison Cawein

    When I behold how some pursue
    Fame, that is Care's embodiment
    Or fortune, whose false face looks true,—
    An humble home with sweet content
    Is all I ask for me and you.

    An humble home, where pigeons coo,
    Whose path leads under breezy lines
    Of frosty-berried cedars to
    A gate, one mass of trumpet-vines,
    Is all I ask for me and you.

    A garden, which all summer through,
    The roses old make redolent,
    And morning-glories, gay of hue,
    And tansy, with its homely scent,
    Is all I ask for me and you.

    An orchard, that the pippins strew,
    From whose bruised gold the juices spring;
    A vineyard, where the grapes hang blue,
    Wine-big and ripe for vintaging,
    Is all I ask for me and you.

    A lane that leads to some far view
    Of forest or of fallow-land,
    Bloomed o'er with rose and meadow-rue,
    Each with a bee in its hot hand,
    Is all I ask for me and you.

    At morn, a pathway deep with dew,
    And birds to vary time and tune;
    At eve, a sunset avenue,
    And whippoorwills that haunt the moon,
    Is all I ask for me and you.

    Dear heart, with wants so small and few,
    And faith, that 's better far than gold,
    A lowly friend; a child or two,
    To care for us when we are old,
    Is all I ask for me and you.

  59. My Own Wild Bower

    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    I stood in the halls where wealth and state
    Their glittering robes displayed—
    Vice, Vanity, Folly, Ambition and Hate
    Assembled in masquerade.

    From the trappings of fashion, the pomp of pride,
    The wiles and deceit of art,
    A child of nature, I turned aside,
    With a chilled and a sickening heart.

    I sighed to return to the hill and the glen,
    The scenes of my earliest hours—
    To breathe in my native air again,
    As it swept through the sweet wild flowers.

    I longed to recline on the violet bed,
    Close down by the murmuring stream,
    Where oft I have pillowed my infant head,
    And sunk in a blissful dream.

    Then, my moments of life were rapid and bright
    As the rivulet sparkling there;
    And the hearts that surrounded me true as light,
    And pure as the woodland air.

    The velvet couch and the gilded hall,
    Gay visions of pomp and power,
    Art, fashion and show, I would give you all
    For a seat in my own wild bower!

  60. Springtime

    by James W. Whilt

    When sun begins to melt the snow
    And the birds commence to sing,
    And the days are getting longer,
    Then we know 'tis surely spring.

    It is then you get a fever,
    But your temp'ture does not raise,
    It's a kind of lazy feeling
    On those balmy warm spring days.

    And it starts your mind to working,
    While your thoughts commence to stray,
    To the hills and lakes and rivers,
    And green woodlands far away.

    And it makes you feel so drowsy
    That you long to go to sleep,
    Out beneath some tall green pine tree,
    Where the shadows cool and deep

    Just seem to be a-calling,
    While the stream beneath the hill
    Is chuckling with glad laughter,
    And I seem to hear it still.

    'Tis then memory breaks its halter
    And stampedes and starts to go,
    Till it stops in childhood's pasture
    In the days of long ago;

    Where the birds were all a-singing,
    Songs so rare and pure and sweet,
    Squirrel's chatter in the tree-tops,—
    Flowers blooming at your feet.

    Then the city seems a prison,
    While brick walls like prison bars,
    Seem to reach clear up to heaven,
    Till they mingle with the stars.

    Still I do not call a doctor,
    For he cannot ease, I know,
    Any longings for the wildwood
    Of the days of long ago.

  61. Native Attachment

    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    Though year after year has rolled on to the deep,
    Where their sorrows and joys in oblivion sleep,
    Since my eye fondly lingered to look an adieu,
    As the home of my childhood was fading from view,
    Not a flower nor a vine round my loved native cot,
    Through time's ceaseless changes, has e'er been forgot.

    The song of the robin, that sang on the bough
    Of the neighbouring pine, is as dear to me now;
    The brook looks as clear to my memory's eye,
    And the verdure as fresh on the banks it played by;
    The lamb bounds as joyous and light o'er the glade,
    As when 'mid those scenes I in infancy strayed.

    And oft my dark hours of their cares are beguiled,
    As fancy's bright wand turns me back to the child
    That followed the flight of the butterfly's wing,
    And plucked the red berries that welcomed the spring;
    Or reached for the fair purple cluster, that hung
    Where round the bowed alder the wild tendril clung.

    The splendor of cities, the polish of art
    May seek my devotion, and sue for my heart;
    But no fount of delight on life's landscape will gush
    Like that, which leapt down by the violet and rush;
    No notes come so sweet as the song of the bird,
    Which the ear of the child from the coppice first heard.

    I find not a gem in my pathway so bright
    As the fire-fly, pursued by my young feet at night.
    Earth offers no flowers like the wild ones I wreathed;
    No breeze comes from heaven like the air I first breathed.
    No spot seems so pure in the wide vault on high,
    As that which sent down the first light to my eye!

  62. My Request

    by James W. Whilt

    When I leave this old dreary world
    To cross to the Great Unknown;
    Don't bury me in a costly tomb
    Or raise a shaft of stone—

    But lay me on some hill-side,
    Mid the forest that I love;
    Where the wild flowers bloom around me
    And the eagle soars above:

    With an ancient ledge above me,
    One that is all moss-grown;
    These words inscribed upon it,
    "He is one of Nature's own.

    One who loved the forest,
    One who loved the hills,
    Although his soul has taken flight,
    His foot-steps echo still."

  63. More Nature Poems

  64. Fresh Air

    by Amos Russel Wells

    Gaily afield, this morning of the skies,
    From earth's wide bowl a blessed draught I draw,—
    Air of the hilltops! air the sun first saw
    Dimpling to greet him; air that flits and flies
    From where the pond to where the meadow lies;
    Crystalline air, that has no fleck or flaw;
    Runaway air, itself its own best law,
    Wild as the brooks from upland rocks that rise.
    Bring me, sweet air, the courage of the hills.
    A weary day's before me; murmur low
    The meadow-charm that masters frets and ills,
    The healthful secret that the woodlands know.
    With all the daring joy of mountain rills
    Into my surly, stagnant living flow!

  65. All Nature Has a Feeling

    by John Clare

    All nature has a feeling: woods, fields, brooks
    Are life eternal: and in silence they
    Speak happiness beyond the reach of books;
    There's nothing mortal in them; their decay
    Is the green life of change; to pass away
    And come again in blooms revivified.
    Its birth was heaven, eternal it its stay,
    And with the sun and moon shall still abide
    Beneath their day and night and heaven wide.

  66. A Field Service

    by Ada A. Mosher

    The Sabbath bell, the Breeze,
    From its belfry in the trees,
    Rang a summons to the little congregation;
    And the Grasses sat in rows
    Crowding one another close
    Till the pews were filled to almost suffocation.

    The Wild Rose read the Gospel
    And the Clover led in prayer,
    While the Briar Brethren, bending rev'rently,
    Clasped their hands and now and then
    Answered soft "Amen, Amen!"
    Then they all sang "Let thy blessing fall on me."

    "Even me—Even me"
    With a touching modesty
    That shrank as tho' its pleading were a boast,
    As if He could love them less
    For their homespun little dress
    Knowing not that, being poor, He loved them most.

    A curly-headed Thistle
    Nodded o'er his tiny Missal
    While the Daisy preached the sermon—how he stares—
    Looking every inch the scholar
    With his snowy Roman collar
    And that amber-colored monocle he wears.

    He preached upon the creed
    Of the Wild-flower and the Weed,
    And his logic carried with it full conviction,
    And they all—but here it thundered,
    So they rose and sang "Old Hundred,"
    And a Shower gave the final Benediction.

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