Famous Nature Poems - Page 4

Last night we saw the sunlight fall
Beyond the gate and old stone wall,
And brighten on the stocks of wheat,
Ripe after days of brooding heat;
And in the lane we lingered long,
Then homeward turned, a sleepy throng.

Yet glad to hail the joyful day,
We rose while still the dawn was grey,
And roused the house, a merry band,
The happiest children in the land;
And all were dressed, and breakfast done,
Before the day had well begun.

The sun looked out, and quickly dried
The gleaming dew, and glorified
The broad array of clustered sheaves,
And pierced the lane's green roof of leaves,
And shone in strength, as one and all
Trooped to the gate and moss-grown wall.

And mother came, with Margery
Our eldest sister, pleased to see
The busy harvesters and hear
Our cries of triumph shrill and clear,
As heavy wagons loaded high
With rustling sheaves came rumbling by.

Late in the golden afternoon,
Yet long before the rising moon,
The last great wagon-load was piled,
And, lovely still, the sunlight smiled
Above the toilers resting there,
And those broad acres reaped and bare.

The laughing months have all tripped gaily by,
With flower entangled hair, lips thrilled with song;
But lingering behind the merry throng
Comes one with smile more sad than any sigh,
And 'round her moaningly the dead leaves fly.
With backward glance her eyes the way prolong—
Wide, wistful eyes, intense with yearning strong
For warm young life too early doomed to die,
While thoughts were golden hours with sunbeams sown.
Now like a blossom memory fadeth fast.
Her joy is vanished. Like a dream it passed,
Or Summer's leaves that 'round her now are blown.
She drops her flowers—a thistle falling last—
Then, sadly shivering, onward fares—alone.

The winter wood is like a strong old man,
Grizzled, rugged, and gray,
With long white locks tattered by many storms.
He lifts gnarled arms defiant of the blasts,
And rears his old head proudly
Under the menace of the winter sky.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Farewell to the mountains, high-cover'd with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green vallies below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Their faint "honk-honk" announces them,
    The geese when they come flying north;
Above the far horizon's hem
    From out the south they issue forth.

They weave their figures in the sky.
    They write their name upon its dome.
And, o'er and o'er, we hear them cry
    Their cry of gladness and of home.

Now lakes shall loose their icy hold
    Upon the banks, and crocus bloom;
The sun shall warm the river's cold
    And pierce the Winter's armored gloom;

The vines upon the oaken tree
    Shall shake their wavy tresses forth,
The grass shall wake, the rill go free—
    For, see! The geese are flying north!

I went to see a waterfall
    When days were dull of song.
And to its jubilant wild voice
    I listened deep and long.

I thought that it would loose my dreams,
    But, ah, it could not free
My bound heart, for it sang so loud
    It drowned the song in me.

So bright in death I used to say,
        So beautiful through frost and cold!
A lovelier thing I know to-day,
        The leaf is growing old,
And wears in grace of duty done,
The gold and scarlet of the sun.

A world of snow, and winter yet,
    The weather-man decrees.
He listens to the bragging wind,
    I hearken roots of trees.
It thawed of late, and roots lay out
    Along the way I take;
I heard them deeply sigh, as does
    A dreamer soon to wake.
And lo—upon my windowsill
Opens a yellow daffodil.

Gold-armored herald of the spring,
    Come privately to tell
That snow is but the calyx warm,
    The bud begins to swell.
So weather-man, go prophesy,
    And credulous, go hear—
My herald gives your gloom the lie,
    I know that Spring is near!
For lo—upon my windowsill
Opens a yellow daffodil.

The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveler hastens toward the town,
    And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands,
    And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveler to the shore,
    And the tide rises, the tide falls.

I sometimes think that thus was born the world—
Not like a blinding sun from chaos hurled
To blaze and burn for ages—that it woke
As wakes the forest, wakes the verdant oak,
Breathing soft breezes, wreathed in lacy mist
Through which there burst the gleam of amethyst.

The forest morn! Across the night profound
Steals now the music of harmonious sound—
The bird's faint twitter, sleepy, sleepy still,
The bird's first carol, sweet, all sweet and shrill;
And down through branches, poured in generous streams,
Come tints of dawn, the colors of our dreams.

It is October, and the glory of the year
Is in the skies and on the woods extended far and near;
It glows in burnish'd clouds, it flushes all the air;
It lies in hollow vales, in uplands brown and bare.

The tufted groves have lost their bright midsummer green,
And now a softer russet-flush creeps o'er the woodland scene;
O'er distant purple hills there floats a gauzy veil,
A silver vapor hovers o'er the river in the vale.

The orchard trees all glisten with globes of yellow gold,
That bend the bough and strew the earth with opulence untold;
The ripen'd corn-fields shake their pennons thin and white,
And to a feast, the chestnuts, the village school invite.

The gossamer spider-web is strung from tree to tree,
And up the air the thistle-down floats like a ship at sea;
The asters and the dahlias like flames in gardens glow,
And by the roadside wild flowers display a royal show.

Dim seen, the cautious angler glides on from brook to brook,
Now by the open meadow, now in some bushy nook.
And now across the mill-pond, with water-plants o'ergrown,
I see his floating boat, and where his lines are thrown.

And o'er the salty marsh the gun's report I hear,
And see the snipe and curlews stop in their swift career;
While o'er the open bays I see the wild-ducks wheel,
The red-neck and the widgeon, the whistler and the teal.

O glorious days of autumn! with all your pomp of skies;
Tour harvests and your fruits, your flowers of matchless dyes
How dear to manly sportsman your ripe, imperial time;
Your sports by "stream and forest," in Nature's royal prime.

I rest me deep within the wood,
    Drawn by its silent call,
Far from the throbbing crowd of men
    On nature's breast I fall.

My couch is sweet with blossoms fair,
    A bed of fragrant dreams,
And soft upon my ear there falls
    The lullaby of streams.

The tumult of my heart is stilled,
    Within this sheltered spot,
Deep in the bosom of the wood,
    Forgetting, and—forgot!

I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,
    And on its outer point, some miles away,
The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
    A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.

Even at this distance I can see the tides,
    Upheaving, break unheard along its base,
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
    In the white lip and tremor of the face.

And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,
    Through the deep purple of the twilight air,
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light
    With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare!

Not one alone; from each projecting cape
    And perilous reef along the ocean's verge,
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,
    Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge.

Like the great giant Christopher it stands
    Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,
    The night-o'ertaken mariner to save.

And the great ships sail outward and return,
    Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells,
And ever joyful, as they see it burn,
    They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.

They come forth from the darkness, and their sails
    Gleam for a moment only in the blaze,
And eager faces, as the light unveils,
    Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.

The mariner remembers when a child,
    On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink;
And when, returning from adventures wild,
    He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink.

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same
    Year after year, through all the silent night
Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame,
    Shines on that inextinguishable light!

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp
    The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace;
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,
    And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece.

The startled waves leap over it; the storm
    Smites it with all the scourges of the rain,
And steadily against its solid form
    Press the great shoulders of the hurricane.

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din
    Of wings and winds and solitary cries,
Blinded and maddened by the light within,
    Dashes himself against the glare, and dies.

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,
    Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,
It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,
    But hails the mariner with words of love.

"Sail on!" it says, "sail on, ye stately ships!
    And with your floating bridge the ocean span;
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,
    Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!"

Like some reformer, who with mien austere,
    Neglected dress, and loud insistent tones,
    More rasping than the wrongs which she bemoans,
Walks through the land and wearies all who hear,
    While yet we know the need of such reform;
    So comes unlovely March, with wind and storm,
To break the spell of winter, and set free
    The poisoned brooks and crocus beds oppressed.
    Severe of face, gaunt-armed, and wildly dressed,
She is not fair nor beautiful to see.
    But merry April and sweet smiling May
    Come not till March has first prepared the way.

My life's long radiant Summer halts at last,
    And lo! beside my path way I behold
    Pursuing Autumn glide: nor frost nor cold
Has heralded her presence; but a vast
Sweet calm that comes not till the year has passed
    Its fevered solstice, and a tinge of gold
    Subdues the vivid colouring of bold
And passion-hued emotions. I will cast

My August days behind me with my May,
    Nor strive to drag them into Autumn's place,
        Nor swear I hope when I do but remember.
Now violet and rose have had their day,
    I'll pluck the soberer asters with good grace
        And call September nothing but September.

The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.