Famous Nature Poems - Page 3

41 - 57 of 57 Poems

  1. 41. Peace

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    Being immersed in nature brings about a peace within a person. Everything in nature has been carefully and meticulously created, leaving us breathless when it’s enjoyed. The world revolves in a peaceful manner; it’s people who’ve created the chaos. Humans are so busy with many different things that we forget to slow down and enjoy the peace of nature.

    THE steadfast coursing of the stars,
    The waves that ripple to the shore,
    The vigorous trees which year by year
    Spread upwards more and more;

    The jewel forming in the mine,
    The snow that falls so soft and light,
    The rising and the setting sun,
    The growing glooms of night;

    All natural things both live and move
    In natural peace that is their own;
    Only in our disordered life
    Almost is she unknown.

    She is not rest, nor sleep, nor death;
    Order and motion ever stand
    To carry out her firm behests
    As guards at her right hand.

    And something of her living force
    Fashions the lips when Christians say
    To Him Whose strength sustains the world,
    "Give us Thy Peace, we pray!"

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  3. 42. The Way Through The Woods

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    Joseph Rudyard Kipling (1865 - 1936) was an short-story writer, poet, and novelist. In 1907 Kipling was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Among his most famous works are The Jungle Book and the poem "If."

    THEY shut the road through the woods
      Seventy years ago.
    Weather and rain have undone it again,
      And now you would never know
    There was once a path through the woods        
      Before they planted the trees:
    It is underneath the coppice and heath,
      And the thin anemones.
      Only the keeper sees
    That, where the ring-dove broods        
      And the badgers roll at ease,
    There was once a road through the woods.

    Yet, if you enter the woods
      Of a summer evening late,
    When the night-air cools on the trout-ring’d pools        
      Where the otter whistles his mate
    (They fear not men in the woods
      Because they see so few),
    You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet
      And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
      Steadily cantering through
    The misty solitudes,
      As though they perfectly knew
    The old lost road through the woods ...
    But there is no road through the woods.

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  5. 43. The Glory Of The Garden

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    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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  6. 44. Spring

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    Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950), was born in Rockland, Maine on February 22. During the 1920's she lived in Greenwich Village, New York City, and wrote for Vanity Fair under the pseudonym Nancy Boyd.

    To what purpose, April, do you return again?
    Beauty is not enough.
    You can no longer quiet me with the redness
    Of little leaves opening stickily.
    I know what I know.
    The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
    The spikes of the crocus.
    The smell of the earth is good.
    It is apparent that there is no death.
    But what does that signify?
    Not only under ground are the brains of men
    Eaten by maggots.
    Life in itself
    Is nothing,
    An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
    It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
    April
    Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers

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  7. 45. There Is Another Sky

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    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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  8. 46. Sea Fever

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    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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  9. 47. The Humblebee

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    Ralph Waldo Emerson was an American essayist, poet, and lecturer who lived from 1803-1882. Emerson believed that nature has knowledge for man to learn, but one must be attentive and willing to study the messages it presents. Emerson believed in the perfection of the natural world because it was not created by humans. This poem touches on the greatness of nature. The bee is seen as a symbol of innocence, and bumblebees used to be known as "humble bees." They are so intent on getting nectar that it's possible to pet them.

    Burly dozing humblebee!
    Where thou art is clime for me.
    Let them sail for Porto Rique,
    Far-off heats through seas to seek,
    I will follow thee alone,
    Thou animated torrid zone!
    Zig-zag steerer, desert-cheerer,
    Let me chase thy waving lines,
    Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
    Singing over shrubs and vines.

    Insect lover of the sun,
    Joy of thy dominion!
    Sailor of the atmosphere,
    Swimmer through the waves of air,
    Voyager of light and noon,
    Epicurean of June,
    Wait I prithee, till I come
    Within ear-shot of thy hum,--
    All without is martyrdom.

    When the south wind, in May days,
    With a net of shining haze,
    Silvers the horizon wall,
    And, with softness touching all,
    Tints the human countenance
    With a color of romance,
    And, infusing subtle heats,
    Turns the sod to violets,
    Thou in sunny solitudes,
    Rover of the underwoods,
    The green silence dost displace,
    With thy mellow breezy bass.

    Hot midsummer's petted crone,
    Sweet to me thy drowsy tune,
    Telling of countless sunny hours,
    Long days, and solid banks of flowers,
    Of gulfs of sweetness without bound
    In Indian wildernesses found,
    Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
    Firmest cheer and bird-like pleasure.

    Aught unsavory or unclean,
    Hath my insect never seen,
    But violets and bilberry bells,
    Maple sap and daffodels,
    Grass with green flag half-mast high,
    Succory to match the sky,
    Columbine with horn of honey,
    Scented fern, and agrimony,
    Clover, catch fly, adders-tongue,
    And brier-roses dwelt among;
    All beside was unknown waste,
    All was picture as he passed.

    Wiser far than human seer,
    Yellow-breeched philosopher!
    Seeing only what is fair,
    Sipping only what is sweet,
    Thou dost mock at fate and care,
    Leave the chaff and take the wheat,
    When the fierce north-western blast
    Cools sea and land so far and fast,
    Thou already slumberest deep,--
    Woe and want thou canst out-sleep,--
    Want and woe which torture us,
    Thy sleep makes ridiculous

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  10. 48. The Tyger

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    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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  11. 49. God The Artist

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    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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  12. 50. Pray To What Earth

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    Henry David Thoreau was an American author, poet, and historian who lived from 1817-1862. Some of his works are about living simply among the surroundings of nature, which can be felt in this piece. Thoreau personifies the moon in this poem by giving “her” human characteristics.

    Pray to what earth does this sweet cold belong,
    Which asks no duties and no conscience?
    The moon goes up by leaps, her cheerful path
    In some far summer stratum of the sky,
    While stars with their cold shine bedot her way.
    The fields gleam mildly back upon the sky,
    And far and near upon the leafless shrubs
    The snow dust still emits a silver light.
    Under the hedge, where drift banks are their screen,
    The titmice now pursue their downy dreams,
    As often in the sweltering summer nights
    The bee doth drop asleep in the flower cup,
    When evening overtakes him with his load.
    By the brooksides, in the still, genial night,
    The more adventurous wanderer may hear
    The crystals shoot and form, and winter slow
    Increase his rule by gentlest summer means

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  13. 51. Music

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    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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  14. 52. To Autumn

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    John Keats was a British Romantic Poem who only lived 25 short years, from 1795-1821. "To Autumn" is the final work in a group of poems that is referred to as Keats' 1819 Odes. He was inspired to write this poem after going on a walk on an autumn evening near Winchester. He wrote it on September 19, 1819, and it was published in 1820, a little more than a year before he succumbed to tuberculosis. The poem shows the progression through the autumn season, from fruitfulness, to labor, and ultimately to its decline. It also has a strong sense of imagery and uses personification.

    Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,  
    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
    Conspiring with him how to load and bless  
    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
    To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,  
    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;      
    To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells  
    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
    And still more, later flowers for the bees,
    Until they think warm days will never cease,      
    For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

    Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?  
    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
    Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,  
    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
    Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,  
    Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook      
    Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
    And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep  
    Steady thy laden head across a brook;  
    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,      
    Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

    Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?  
    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
    While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,  
    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
    Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn  
    Among the river sallows, borne aloft      
    Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
    And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;  
    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft  
    The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;      
    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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  15. 53. A Minor Bird

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    When a person is in a depressed mood even the beautiful song of a bird is grating. Of course, after that moment of irritation, one realizes the problem is not with the bird but with you.

    I have wished a bird would fly away,
    And not sing by my house all day;

    Have clapped my hands at him from the door
    When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

    The fault must partly have been in me.
    The bird was not to blame for his key.

    And of course there must be something wrong
    In wanting to silence any song.

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  16. 54. Birches

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    "Birches" was first published in the Atlantic Monthly in 1915. The poem about the Birch tree with branches weighed heavy with ice and snow is one of Frost's most famous poems.

    When I see birches bend to left and right
    Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
    I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
    But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
    As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
    Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
    After a rain. They click upon themselves
    As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
    As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
    Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
    Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
    Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
    You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
    They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
    And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
    So low for long, they never right themselves:
    You may see their trunks arching in the woods
    Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
    Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
    Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
    But I was going to say when Truth broke in
    With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
    I should prefer to have some boy bend them
    As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
    Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
    Whose only play was what he found himself,
    Summer or winter, and could play alone.
    One by one he subdued his father's trees
    By riding them down over and over again
    Until he took the stiffness out of them,
    And not one but hung limp, not one was left
    For him to conquer. He learned all there was
    To learn about not launching out too soon
    And so not carrying the tree away
    Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
    To the top branches, climbing carefully
    With the same pains you use to fill a cup
    Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
    Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
    Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
    So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
    And so I dream of going back to be.
    It's when I'm weary of considerations,
    And life is too much like a pathless wood
    Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
    Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
    From a twig's having lashed across it open.
    I'd like to get away from earth awhile
    And then come back to it and begin over.
    May no fate willfully misunderstand me
    And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
    Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
    I don't know where it's likely to go better.
    I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
    And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
    Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
    But dipped its top and set me down again.
    That would be good both going and coming back.
    One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

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  17. 55. A Narrow Fellow In The Grass

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    When the poem was published in the Springfield Daily Republican (Feb. 14, 1866), it was entitled "The Snake."

    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.

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  18. 56. A Light Exists In Spring

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    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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  19. 57. A Bird Came Down The Walk

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    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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