Famous Nature Poems

Famous Nature Poems

Poems on Nature

The power, ingenuity, and sheer beauty found in nature has always fascinated mankind. When we look at powerful ocean waves rolling in, we cannot help but feel small and powerless in comparison. Mighty trees in a vast forest inspire feelings of insignificance and awe. Animal mothers taking care of their young make us question the cruelty with which we sometimes treat one another. The truth is, nature can teach us many valuable lessons. It can also lead us to wonder, did this beautiful earth with all of its natural treasures come about by chance or was it created?

41 Famous Nature Poems About The Beauty And Brutality Of Nature

  1. 1. I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

    "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" is a lyric poem that expresses deep feelings about the beauty of nature. William Wordsworth was a well-known poet of the Romantic era, which began at the beginning of the 1800s. The focus during the Romantic era was on people's feelings and their connectedness to nature. That was a drastic shift from the emphasis on science and reason of the Enlightenment era, which came before. "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" is one of Wordsworth's most famous poems. It was inspired by a journal entry his sister wrote recounting when the two of them went for a walk along the bay and saw a large number of daffodils.

    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—and 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.

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  3. 2. Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

    This deceptively simple poem is by Robert Frost (1874 – 1963). He wrote it in 1922 in a few moments after being up the entire night writing a long and complicated poem. The poem uses an AABA rhyme scheme. The repetition of the last line emphasizes the profundity contained in the last stanza, a popular reading for funerals.

    Whose woods these are I think I know.   
    His house is in the village though;   
    He will not see me stopping here   
    To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

    My little horse must think it queer   
    To stop without a farmhouse near   
    Between the woods and frozen lake   
    The darkest evening of the year.   

    He gives his harness bells a shake   
    To ask if there is some mistake.   
    The only other sound’s the sweep   
    Of easy wind and downy flake.   

    The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
    But I have promises to keep,   
    And miles to go before I sleep,   
    And miles to go before I sleep.

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  5. 3. Nothing Gold Can Stay

    Robert Frost is one of the most famous poets from the 1900s. He never earned a formal college degree, but he did receive honorary degrees from more than 40 colleges and universities. This famous poem shows that everything in life is cyclical and that the beauty in nature only lasts for a short period of time. Even though life ends, there is new life waiting to come forth.

    Nature's first green is gold,
    Her hardest hue to hold.
    Her early leaf's a flower;
    But only so an hour.
    Then leaf subsides to leaf.
    So Eden sank to grief,
    So dawn goes down to day.
    Nothing gold can stay.

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  6. 4. My November Guest

    The landscape of New England influenced many of Robert Frost’s poems, which can be seen in “My November Guest.” In this poem, sorrow is personified as someone the speaker loved. While the speaker sees things one way, Sorrow sees them differently. She sees the beauty in autumn, while the poet cannot. We each see beauty in different things. Even in the midst of sorrow there can be something beautiful. In the midst of autumn, where leaves are dying, there is beauty in their changing colors.

    My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
    Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
    Are beautiful as days can be;
    She loves the bare, the withered tree;
    She walks the sodden pasture lane.

    Her pleasure will not let me stay.
    She talks and I am fain to list:
    She's glad the birds are gone away,
    She's glad her simple worsted grey
    Is silver now with clinging mist.

    The desolate, deserted trees,
    The faded earth, the heavy sky,
    The beauties she so truly sees,
    She thinks I have no eye for these,
    And vexes me for reason why.

    Not yesterday I learned to know
    The love of bare November days
    Before the coming of the snow,
    But it were vain to tell her so,
    And they are better for her praise.

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  7. 5. The Tyger

    William Blake became an apprentice to an engraver at a young age, which was an inspiration for many of his poems. The Tyger in this poem is a symbol of creation and the presence of both good and evil in this world. The Tyger is written in Quatrains (4 line stanzas) and follows an AABB rhyme scheme.

    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

    In what distant deeps or skies
    Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
    On what wings dare he aspire?
    What the hand dare seize the fire?

    And what shoulder, and what art,
    Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
    And when thy heart began to beat,
    What dread hand? and what dread feet?

    What the hammer? what the chain?
    In what furnace was thy brain?
    What the anvil? what dread grasp
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

    When the stars threw down their spears,
    And watered heaven with their tears,
    Did he smile his work to see?
    Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye,
    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

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  8. 6. A Bird Came Down The Walk

    A poem about birds from Emily Dickinson. Considered by many to be one of the best American Poets. What about this poem makes it a classic?

    A bird came down the walk:
    He did not know I saw;
    He bit an angle-worm in halves
    And ate the fellow, raw.

    And then he drank a dew
    From a convenient grass,
    And then hopped sidewise to the wall
    To let a beetle pass.

    He glanced with rapid eyes
    That hurried all abroad,--
    They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
    He stirred his velvet head

    Like one in danger; cautious,
    I offered him a crumb,
    And he unrolled his feathers
    And rowed him softer home

    Than oars divide the ocean,
    Too silver for a seam,
    Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
    Leap, plashless, as they swim.

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    I take walks daily with my dog to visit and hang out with friends. Fall is the prettiest show-off with her colorful jewels! The birds and squirrels play hide and seek within and keep me...

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  9. 7. The Seed-Shop

    One of the topics Muriel Stuart (1885-1967) liked to write about was nature. She even stopped writing poetry to pursue writing about gardening. In this poem, she shares about the hidden potential of seeds. In their current state, they look like lifeless stones, but an entire garden and forest rests inside of them when they are planted. The same could be said about people. When we don’t embrace our purpose and contribute to society, we are no better than unplanted seeds. But once we allow our gifts and talents to be used, we create beauty for others to enjoy.

    HERE in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
    Faded as crumbled stone and shifting sand,
    Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -
    Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

    Dead that shall quicken at the voice of spring,
    Sleepers to wake beneath June’s tempest kiss;
    Though birds pass over, unremembering,
    And no bee find here roses that were his.

    In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
    A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
    That shall drink deeply at a century’s streams;
    These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

    Here in their safe and simple house of death,
    Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
    Here I can stir a garden with my breath,
    And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

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  10. 8. A Light Exists In Spring

    Emily Dickinson was a famous American poet who lived during the 1800s. In addition to writing, she also studied botany, which could have been an influence in her poems about nature. This poem is about the light that illuminates all that's around it during spring. While this poem is about nature, it has a strong religious undertone, showing there are things science is unable to fully explain.

    A Light exists in Spring
    Not present on the Year
    At any other period --
    When March is scarcely here

    A Color stands abroad
    On Solitary Fields
    That Science cannot overtake
    But Human Nature feels.

    It waits upon the Lawn,
    It shows the furthest Tree
    Upon the furthest Slope you know
    It almost speaks to you.

    Then as Horizons step
    Or Noons report away
    Without the Formula of sound
    It passes and we stay --

    A quality of loss
    Affecting our Content
    As Trade had suddenly encroached
    Upon a Sacrament.

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  11. 9. The Fish

    This famous narrative poem transforms an ordinary moment into a gripping story about the moment when the Hunter meets the Hunted. The fisherwoman's catch of a tremendous fish takes an unexpected diversion when she takes the opportunity to observe it at close range. The life story of The Fish as told by its battle scars and beautiful fishiness gives the encounter a personal side and result in things taking an unexpected turn.

    I caught a tremendous fish
    and held him beside the boat
    half out of water, with my hook
    fast in a corner of his mouth.
    He didn’t fight.
    He hadn’t fought at all.
    He hung a grunting weight,
    battered and venerable
    and homely. Here and there
    his brown skin hung in strips
    like ancient wallpaper,
    and its pattern of darker brown
    was like wallpaper:
    shapes like full-blown roses
    stained and lost through age.
    He was speckled with barnacles,
    fine rosettes of lime,
    and infested
    with tiny white sea-lice,
    and underneath two or three
    rags of green weed hung down.
    While his gills were breathing in
    the terrible oxygen
    —the frightening gills,
    fresh and crisp with blood,
    that can cut so badly—
    I thought of the coarse white flesh
    packed in like feathers,
    the big bones and the little bones,
    the dramatic reds and blacks
    of his shiny entrails,
    and the pink swim-bladder
    like a big peony.
    I looked into his eyes
    which were far larger than mine
    but shallower, and yellowed,
    the irises backed and packed
    with tarnished tinfoil
    seen through the lenses
    of old scratched isinglass.
    They shifted a little, but not
    to return my stare.
    —It was more like the tipping
    of an object toward the light.
    I admired his sullen face,
    the mechanism of his jaw,
    and then I saw
    that from his lower lip
    —if you could call it a lip—
    grim, wet, and weaponlike,
    hung five old pieces of fish-line,
    or four and a wire leader
    with the swivel still attached,
    with all their five big hooks
    grown firmly in his mouth.
    A green line, frayed at the end
    where he broke it, two heavier lines,
    and a fine black thread
    still crimped from the strain and snap
    when it broke and he got away.
    Like medals with their ribbons
    frayed and wavering,
    a five-haired beard of wisdom
    trailing from his aching jaw.
    I stared and stared
    and victory filled up
    the little rented boat,
    from the pool of bilge
    where oil had spread a rainbow
    around the rusted engine
    to the bailer rusted orange,
    the sun-cracked thwarts,
    the oarlocks on their strings,
    the gunnels—until everything
    was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
    And I let the fish go.

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  12. 10. Winter Morning Poem

    This famous poem by Ogden Nash uses descriptive language to show the beauty of snow. Winter is unlike any other season where snow blankets everything it touches. It transforms the land into a magical experience. Ogden Nash (1902-1971) was well-known and appreciated during his lifetime.

    Winter is the king of showmen,
    Turning tree stumps into snow men
    And houses into birthday cakes
    And spreading sugar over lakes.
    Smooth and clean and frosty white,
    The world looks good enough to bite.
    That's the season to be young,
    Catching snowflakes on your tongue!
    Snow is snowy when it's snowing.
    I'm sorry it's slushy when it's going.

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  13. 11. Sea Fever

    As you read this poem about the beauty of sailing the ocean, imagine the smell of the salt air, the wind on your face and the movement of the waves as you sail toward your destiny.

    I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
    And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
    And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
    And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.

    I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
    Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
    And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
    And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

    I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
    To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
    And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
    And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

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  14. 12. When April Comes

    • By Virna Sheard

    In the poem "When April Comes" by Virna Sheard, the poet paints a vivid and enchanting picture of the arrival of April. Through the use of personification and imagery, the poem captures the essence of spring's arrival. The poet describes April with "softly shining eyes" and daffodils adorning her hair, symbolizing the renewal and beauty of the season. The arrival of April is depicted as a transformative time, as clouds dissipate and the skies clear. The poem celebrates the awakening of nature, with swallows swinging through the air and the joyful melodies of robins and bobolinks. April is portrayed as a rejuvenating force that breathes new life into the world, causing it to momentarily forget its weariness and age. Winter is depicted as a distant memory, with its bitter winds and frost belonging to the past. Overall, the poem captures the anticipation and joy associated with the arrival of April, signaling the arrival of spring and the rebirth of nature.

    When April comes with softly shining eyes,
    And daffodils bound in her wind-blown hair,
    Oh, she will coax all clouds from out the skies,
    And every day will bring some sweet surprise, --
    The swallows will come swinging through the air
    When April comes!

    When April comes with tender smile and tear,
    Dear dandelions will gild the common ways,
    And at the break of morning we will hear
    The piping of the robins crystal clear --
    While bobolinks will whistle through the days,
    When April comes!

    When April comes, the world so wise and old,
    Will half forget that it is worn and grey;
    Winter will seem but as a tale long told --
    Its bitter winds with all its frost and cold
    Will be the by-gone things of yesterday,
    When April comes!

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  15. 13. It's September

    Edgar Guest (1881-1959) captures the breathtaking beauty of September and how the world is transformed with hues of gold, orange, red, and yellow. In many of his poems, he used everyday experiences to capture more significant thoughts on life. When reflecting on the end of life, we can see that it is comparable to September, full and ripe, a life well-lived.

    It's September, and the orchards are afire with red and gold,
    And the nights with dew are heavy, and the morning's sharp with cold;
    Now the garden's at its gayest with the salvia blazing red
    And the good old-fashioned asters laughing at us from their bed;
    Once again in shoes and stockings are the children's little feet,
    And the dog now does his snoozing on the bright side of the street.

    It's September, and the cornstalks are as high as they will go,
    And the red cheeks of the apples everywhere begin to show;
    Now the supper's scarcely over ere the darkness settles down
    And the moon looms big and yellow at the edges of the town;
    Oh, it's good to see the children, when their little prayers are said,
    Duck beneath the patchwork covers when they tumble into bed.

    It's September, and a calmness and a sweetness seem to fall
    Over everything that's living, just as though it hears the call
    Of Old Winter, trudging slowly, with his pack of ice and snow,
    In the distance over yonder, and it somehow seems as though
    Every tiny little blossom wants to look its very best
    When the frost shall bite its petals and it droops away to rest.

    It's September! It's the fullness and the ripeness of the year;
    All the work of earth is finished, or the final tasks are near,
    But there is no doleful wailing; every living thing that grows,
    For the end that is approaching wears the finest garb it knows.
    And I pray that I may proudly hold my head up high and smile
    When I come to my September in the golden afterwhile.

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  16. 14. The Rain

    In "The Rain" by W.H. Davies, the poet employs a range of poetic techniques to create a vivid and engaging picture of nature. Personification is also used throughout the poem, with the leaves given human qualities of drinking and being rich or poor. Imagery is another key technique used to convey the beauty of the rain, with the sound of leaves drinking described as a "sweet noise." Finally, symbolism is used to underscore the interconnectedness of nature, with the rain and the sun serving as symbols of renewal and transformation. These techniques come together to create a beautiful poem that celebrates the wonders of the nature.

    I hear leaves drinking rain;
    I hear rich leaves on top
    Giving the poor beneath
    Drop after drop;
    ’Tis a sweet noise to hear
    These green leaves drinking near.

    And when the Sun comes out,
    After this Rain shall stop,
    A wondrous Light will fill
    Each dark, round drop;
    I hope the Sun shines bright;
    ’Twill be a lovely sight.

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  17. 15. Snow-Flakes

    Snow-Flakes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is a beautiful description of the way snow falls from the sky and covers the landscape. The snowflakes are described as silent, soft, and slow, creating a sense of stillness and peace. The comparison between the way snowflakes take shape in the air and the way our thoughts take shape in our minds suggests a connection between the natural world and our inner world. The final stanza suggests that there is something deeply meaningful about the snowflakes and the way they reveal the secret of despair.

    Out of the bosom of the Air,
        Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
    Over the woodlands brown and bare,
        Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
            Silent, and soft, and slow
            Descends the snow.

    Even as our cloudy fancies take
        Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
    Even as the troubled heart doth make
        In the white countenance confession,
            The troubled sky reveals
            The grief it feels.

    This is the poem of the air,
        Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
    This is the secret of despair,
        Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
            Now whispered and revealed
            To wood and field.

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  18. 16. The Brook

    The Industrial Revolution took place in Great Britain during the late 1700s and early 1800s. As cities grew, living conditions deteriorated for the poor and working class. Factories and mass production were beneficial for some but not everyone. This poem stands in contrast of new manufacturing processes of that time period by focusing on nature. The narrator in this poem, the brook, is personified. The brook shows persistence by continuing to flow, no matter what obstacles get in its way. The repeated lines, “For men may come and men may go, but I go on for ever,” showcase that. Famous poet Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) was named Poet Laureate in Great Britain and Ireland.

    I come from haunts of coot and hern,
       I make a sudden sally
    And sparkle out among the fern,
       To bicker down a valley.

    By thirty hills I hurry down,
       Or slip between the ridges,
    By twenty thorpes, a little town,
       And half a hundred bridges.

    Till last by Philip's farm I flow
       To join the brimming river,
    For men may come and men may go,
       But I go on for ever.

    I chatter over stony ways,
       In little sharps and trebles,
    I bubble into eddying bays,
       I babble on the pebbles.

    With many a curve my banks I fret
       By many a field and fallow,
    And many a fairy foreland set
       With willow-weed and mallow.

    I chatter, chatter, as I flow
       To join the brimming river,
    For men may come and men may go,
       But I go on for ever.

    I wind about, and in and out,
       With here a blossom sailing,
    And here and there a lusty trout,
       And here and there a grayling,

    And here and there a foamy flake
       Upon me, as I travel
    With many a silvery waterbreak
       Above the golden gravel,

    And draw them all along, and flow
       To join the brimming river
    For men may come and men may go,
       But I go on for ever.

    I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
       I slide by hazel covers;
    I move the sweet forget-me-nots
       That grow for happy lovers.

    I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
       Among my skimming swallows;
    I make the netted sunbeam dance
       Against my sandy shallows.

    I murmur under moon and stars
       In brambly wildernesses;
    I linger by my shingly bars;
       I loiter round my cresses;

    And out again I curve and flow
       To join the brimming river,
    For men may come and men may go,
       But I go on for ever.

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  19. 17. Music

    Bessie Rayner Parkes lived from 1829-1925. She was an English feminist who became an editor of the Britain's first feminist magazine. This poem showcases how nature creates a concert for anyone who stops to listen.

    Sweet melody amidst the moving spheres
    Breaks forth, a solemn and entrancing sound,
    A harmony whereof the earth's green hills
    Give but the faintest echo; yet is there
    A music everywhere, and concert sweet!
    All birds which sing amidst the forest deep
    Till the flowers listen with unfolded bells;
    All winds that murmur over summer grass,
    Or curl the waves upon the pebbly shore;
    Chiefly all earnest human voices rais'd
    In charity and for the cause of truth,
    Mingle together in one sacred chord,
    And float, a grateful incense, up to God.

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  20. 18. God The Artist

    Angela Morgan was an American writer who formed a musical quartet with her three sisters, and her brother was their manager. This was one way she earned a living. In this poem, the narrator reflects on the marvels of God. How did He come up with all the ideas and intricacies we see in nature?

    God, when you thought of a pine tree,
    How did you think of a star?
    How did you dream of the Milky Way
    To guide us from afar.
    How did you think of a clean brown pool
    Where flecks of shadows are?

    God, when you thought of a cobweb,
    How did you think of dew?
    How did you know a spider's house
    Had shingles bright and new?
    How did you know the human folk
    Would love them like they do?

    God, when you patterned a bird song,
    Flung on a silver string,
    How did you know the ecstasy
    That crystal call would bring?
    How did you think of a bubbling throat
    And a darling speckled wing?

    God, when you chiseled a raindrop,
    How did you think of a stem,
    Bearing a lovely satin leaf
    To hold the tiny gem?
    How did you know a million drops
    Would deck the morning's hem?

    Why did you mate the moonlit night
    With the honeysuckle vines?
    How did you know Madeira bloom
    Distilled ecstatic wines?
    How did you weave the velvet disk
    Where tangled perfumes are?
    God, when you thought of a pine tree,
    How did you think of a star?

    God The Artist By Angela Morgan

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  21. 19. The Glory Of The Garden

    The Glory Of The Garden By Rudyard Kipling was first published in A School History of England (1911).

    Our England is a garden that is full of stately views,
    Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
    With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
    But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.

    For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,
    You'll find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all
    The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dung-pits and the tanks,
    The rollers, carts, and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.

    And there you'll see the gardeners, the men and 'prentice boys
    Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise ;
    For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
    The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.

    And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
    And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows ;
    But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
    For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.

    Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
    By singing, "Oh, how beautiful," and sitting in the shade
    While better men than we go out and start their working lives
    At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives.

    There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick,
    There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick
    But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done,
    For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.

    Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
    If it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
    And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
    You will find yourself a partner In the Glory of the Garden.

    Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
    That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees,
    So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
    For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away!

    And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away!

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  22. 20. There Is Another Sky

    This poem about finding a beautiful garden is one of Emily Dickinson's most well known poems. The precise meaning of the poem is a matter of opinion. One possibility is that she is pointing out that a person may be disappointed in his quest to experience beauty in the world. However, when we look inside ourselves and one another, we may find a flourishing beautiful garden of delights!

    There is another sky,
    Ever serene and fair,
    And there is another sunshine,
    Though it be darkness there;
    Never mind faded forests, Austin,
    Never mind silent fields -
    Here is a little forest,
    Whose leaf is ever green;
    Here is a brighter garden,
    Where not a frost has been;
    In its unfading flowers
    I hear the bright bee hum:
    Prithee, my brother,
    Into my garden come!

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    My mother, Joyce, loves her garden, which she made and made beautiful; and her other garden is the seeds of positivity, love, and joy that she has sown throughout her life. Joyce is 84 now...

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