Famous Nature Poems - Page 3

The golden sea its mirror spreads
    Beneath the golden skies,
And but a narrow strip between
    Of earth and shadow lies.

The cloud-like cliffs, the cliff-like clouds,
    Dissolved in glory, float,
And midway of the radiant floods
    Hangs silently the boat.

The sea is but another sky,
    The sky a sea as well,
And which is earth and which the heavens
    The eye can scarcely tell.

So when for me life's latest hour
    Soft passes to its end,
May glory, born of earth and heaven,
    The earth and heaven blend.

Flooded with light the spirits float,
    With silent rapture glow,
Till where earth ends and heaven begins
    The soul shall scarcely know.

A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him,--did you not,
His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun,--
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;

But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.

I came to the mountains for beauty
And I find here the toiling folk,
On sparse little farms in the valleys,
Wearing their days like a yoke.

White clouds fill the valleys at morning,
They are round as great billows at sea,
And roll themselves up to the hill-tops
Still round as great billows can be.

The mists fill the valleys at evening,
They are blue as the smoke in the fall,
And spread all the hills with a tenuous scarf
That touches the hills not at all.

These lone folk have looked on them daily,
Yet I see in their faces no light.
Oh, how can I show them the mountains
That are round them by day and by night?

Across the lonely beach we flit,
    One little sandpiper and I,
And fast I gather, bit by bit,
    The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
    The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,
    One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds
    Scud, black and swift, across the sky;
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
    Stand out the white lighthouses high.
Almost as far as eye can reach
    I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
As fast we flit along the beach,
    One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,
    Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;
He starts not at my fitful song,
    Nor flash of fluttering drapery.
He has no thought of any wrong,
    He scans me with a fearless eye;
Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,
    The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,
    When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
    To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, though wroth
    The tempest rushes through the sky;
For are we not God's children both,
    Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

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.

Out of a pellucid brook
Pebbles round and smooth I took :
Like a jewel, every one
Caught a color from the sun, —
Ruby red and sapphire blue,
Emerald and onyx too,
Diamond and amethyst, —
Not a precious stone I missed :
Gems I held from every land
In the hollow of my hand.
Workman Water these had made ;
Patiently through sun and shade,
With the ripples of the rill
He had polished them until,
Smooth, symmetrical and bright,
Each one sparkling in the light
Showed within its burning heart
All the lapidary’s art ;
And the brook seemed thus to sing :
Patience conquers everything !

A bursting into greenness;
    A waking as from sleep;
A twitter and a warble
    That make the pulses leap:
A watching, as in childhood,
    For the flowers that, one by one,
Open their golden petals
    To woo the fitful sun.
A gust, a flash, a gurgle,
    A wish to shout and sing,
As, filled with hope and gladness,
    We hail the vernal Spring.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.

When a feller feels a longing
    For the medder in his breast.
When the robins north are thronging,
    Where they haste to build their nest.
When the frogs peep in the puddle
    Where I love to hear them sing,
Then my brain is in a muddle,
    For I know it's really spring.

When the double windows smother
    Us until we want more air;
When a protest comes and mother
    Can't endure them longer there;
When we ope the cellar shutters,
    Kitchen doors are on the swing,
Clean the cisterns, fix the gutters―
    Then I know its truly spring.

When the wild ducks and geese are going
    Northward, "dragging" as they fly;
When the streams are overflowing,
    And a rainbow gilds the sky;
When the plowman turns the stubble
    Where the bluebirds sweetly sing,
When comes carpet-beating trouble,
    Then I'm confident it's spring.

When the jack-torch men are spearing
    Silver suckers in the brook,
And the angleworms appearing.
    Seem quite anxious for my hook;
When the mellow sunlights beckon
    Till the mill wheel starts to sing,
Then's the time the fish, I reckon,
    'Spect to see me―Come! It's spring!

The leaves are fading and falling,
   The winds are rough and wild,
The birds have ceased their calling,
   But let me tell, you my child,

Though day by day, as it closes,
   Doth darker and colder grow,
The roots of the bright red roses
   Will keep alive in the snow.

And when the Winter is over,
   The boughs will get new leaves,
The quail come back to the clover,
   And the swallow back to the eaves.

The robin will wear on his bosom
   A vest that is bright and new,
And the loveliest way-side blossom
  Will shine with the sun and dew.

The leaves to-day are whirling,
   The brooks are all dry and dumb,
But let me tell, you my darling,
   The Spring will be sure to come.

There must be rough, cold weather,
   And winds and rains so wild;
Not all good things together
   Come to us here, my child.

So, when some dear joy loses
   Its beauteous summer glow,
Think how the roots of the roses
   Are kept alive in the snow.

November now is here,
    With skies of leaden hue,
And gloomy days and drear,
    And winds that pierce us through.

And on the hedge the rose,
    With leaves of tender green,
No more in beauty grows,
    And frost and snow are seen.

But still the Birds contrive,
    By hardship unsubdued,
To keep themselves alive,
    And keenly seek their food.

And thus they teach us still,
    However dark the day,
"That where there is a Will
    There always is a Way."

I dare not look away
    From beauty such as this,
Lest, while my glance should stray,
    Some loveliness I miss.

The trees might choose to print
    Their shadow on the lake;
The windless air might glint
    With aspen leaves that shake.

Over the mountains there
    A thin blue veil might drift;
Then in a moment rare
    This thin blue veil might lift.

Ah, I must pay good heed
    To beauty such as this,
Lest, in some hour of need,
    Its loveliness I miss.

O little wave, you come from far,
    Over the sky-line yonder.
Why do you hurry across the bar
    And fight with the wind, I wonder?

Can you be weary of ocean play?
    Did the big monsters follow?
Were you afraid that a whale to-day
    Your little self would swallow?

There, little wave, come close to land.
    Careful! I knew you'd stumble.
There goes your curly head on the sand—
    Never you mind—don't grumble.

Here are some playthings I've brought for you,—
    Buttercups, daisies, clover.
Now you will stay? Lo—off to the blue!
    Gone is my little rover.

Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
I hoped for you before—
Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me—
I have so much to tell—

I got your Letter, and the Birds—
The Maples never knew that you were coming—
I declare - how Red their Faces grew—
But March, forgive me—
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue—
There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—

Who knocks? That April—
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied—
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come

That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—

The birds laugh loud and long together
    When Fashion's followers speed away
At the first cool breath of autumn weather.
    Why, this is the time, cry the birds, to stay!
When the deep calm sea and the deep sky over
    Both look their passion through sun-kissed space,
As a blue-eyed maid and her blue-eyed lover
    Might each gaze into the other's face.

Oh! this is the time when careful spying
    Discovers the secrets Nature knows.
You find when the butterflies plan for flying
    (Before the thrush or the blackbird goes),
You see some day by the water's edges
    A brilliant border of red and black;
And then off over the hills and hedges
    It flutters away on the summer's track.

The shy little sumacs, in lonely places,
    Bowed all summer with dust and heat,
Like clean-clad children with rain-washed faces,
    Are dressed in scarlet from head to feet.
And never a flower had the boastful summer,
    In all the blossoms that decked her sod,
So royal hued as that later comer
    The purple chum of the goldenrod.

Some chill grey dawn you note with grieving
    That the King of Autumn is on his way.
You see, with a sorrowful, slow believing,
    How the wanton woods have gone astray,
They wear the stain of bold caresses,
    Of riotous revels with old King Frost;
They dazzle all eyes with their gorgeous dresses,
    Nor care that their green young leaves are lost.

A wet wind blows from the East one morning,
    The wood's gay garments looked draggled out.
You hear a sound, and your heart takes warning―
    The birds are planning their winter route.
They wheel and settle and scold and wrangle,
    Their tempers are ruffled, their voices loud;
Then whirr and away in a feathered tangle,
    To fade in the south like a passing cloud.

            Envoi
A songless wood stripped bare of glory―
    A sodden moor that is black and brown;
The year has finished its last love-story:
    Oh! let us away to the gay bright town.

Father Time, your footsteps go
Lightly as the falling snow.
In your swing I'm sitting, see!
Push me softly; one, two; three,
Twelve times only. Like a sheet,
Spread the snow beneath my feet.
Singing merrily, let me swing
Out of winter into spring.

Swing me out, and swing me in!
Trees are bare, but birds begin
Twittering to the peeping leaves,
On the bough beneath the eaves.
Wait,—one lilac bud I saw.
Icy hillsides feel the thaw.
April chased off March to-day;
Now I catch a glimpse of May.

Oh, the smell of sprouting grass!
In a blur the violets pass.
Whispering from the wildwood come
Mayflower's breath and insect's hum.
Roses carpeting the ground;
Thrushes, orioles, warbling sound:—
Swing me low, and swing me high,
To the warm clouds of July.

Slower now, for at my side
White pond lilies open wide.
Underneath the pine's tall spire
Cardinal blossoms burn like fire.
They are gone; the golden-rod
Flashes from the dark green sod.
Crickets in the grass I hear;
Asters light the fading year.

Slower still! October weaves
Rainbows of the forest leaves.
Gentians fringed, like eyes of blue,
Glimmer out of sleety dew.
Meadow green I sadly miss:
Winds through withered sedges hiss.
Oh, 't is snowing, swing me fast,
While December shivers past!

Frosty-bearded Father Time,
Stop your footfall on the rime!
Hard you push, your hand is rough;
You have swung me long enough.
"Nay, no stopping," say you? Well,
Some of your best stories tell,
While you swing me—gently, do!—
From the Old Year to the New.

The mountain sat upon the plain
In his eternal chair,
His observation omnifold,
His inquest everywhere.

The seasons prayed around his knees,
Like children round a sire:
Grandfather of the days is he,
Of dawn the ancestor.

When some one has slipped you the dirk in the dark,
    When eyes that are loving are lies,
When some one you trusted has made you a mark,
    And somehow the heart in you dies,
There's dirt for you, hurt for you, trouble enough
    To shatter the faith of a man;
But don't ever think there is trouble so tough
    That you can't overcome it—you can.

When living is losing its flavor to you,
    When worry is making you old;
When there is no joy in the thing that you do
    Nor truth in the thing you are told,
There's balm for you, calm for you, out in the wild,
    There's hope for you up on the hill.
Get up in the timber and play like a child;
    You can overcome it—you will.

Get up in the timber; the trail and the trees
    Will make you a man in a day.
The smell of the soil and the breath of the breeze
    Will blow all your troubles away.
There's pine for you, wine for you, hope for you there—
    The sun and the moon and the star—
If the ways of the city are not on the square,
    Get up in the woods—where they are.

Beautiful, beautiful summer!
    Odorous, exquisite June!
All the sweet roses in blossom,
    All the sweet birdies in tune.

Dew on the meadows at sunset;
    Gems on the meadows at morn;
Melody hushing the evening;
    Melody greeting the dawn.

All the dim aisles of the forest
    Ringing and thrilling with song;
Music—a flood-tide of music—
    Poured the green valleys along.

Rapturous creatures of beauty.
    Winging their way through the sky,
Heavenward warble their praises—
    Mount our thanksgivings as high?

Lo! when a bird is delighted,
    His ecstacy prompts him to soar;
The greater, the fuller his rapture,
    His songs of thanksgiving the more.

See how the winds from the mountains
    Sweep over meadows most fair;
The green fields are tossed like the ocean,
    Are shadowed by clouds in the air.

For now fleecy shadows are chasing
    The sunshine from woodland and vale,
As white clouds come gathering slowly,
    Blown up by the sweet-scented gale

Birds and the gales and the flowers
    Call us from study away,
Out to the fields where the mowers
    Soon will be making the hay.

Buttercups, daisies, and clover,
    Roses, sweet-briar, and fern,
Mingle their breath on the breezes—
    Who from such wooing could turn?

Out! to the heath and the mountain,
    Where mid the fern and the brake,
Under the pines and the spruces,
    Fragrant the bower we will make.

Ravishing voices of Nature,
    Ye conquer—and never too soon—
We yield to thy luscious embraces,
    Thou odorous, exquisite June!

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.