Famous Nature Poems - Page 3

41 - 57 of 57 Poems

  1. 41. Winter Woods

    Famous Poem

    "Winter Woods" by Eleanor Hammond is a vivid poem that paints a powerful image of the winter landscape. Through personification, the poet compares the winter woods to an elderly man, using metaphors to convey its strength and resilience. The description of the wood's "gnarled arms" and "old head" creates a tangible image of nature's endurance against the harshness of winter. The poem captures the essence of nature's tenacity and the beauty of its wintry facade.

    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.

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  3. 42. 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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  5. 43. Spring Fever

    • By Charles A. Heath

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    In "Spring Fever" by Charles A. Heath, the poem captures the joy and anticipation of the arrival of spring. The speaker describes various signs of the season, such as the longing for nature, the return of robins and frogs, and the migration of ducks and geese. The poem also portrays the practical activities associated with spring, like opening windows, cleaning and fixing things, and engaging in outdoor pursuits like fishing. Through lively imagery and a playful tone, the poem conveys the sense of renewal and excitement that comes with the arrival of spring. It celebrates the awakening of nature and the eager anticipation of enjoying the outdoors after the long winter months.

    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!

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  6. 44. Memory

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    Life is filled with many moments, and it’s impossible to remember all of them. However, certain things in life will always stick with us. Sometimes it’s a small and seemingly insignificant moment, but something about it strikes a chord with us, making it impossible to forget. Often, we remember specific sights and smells. Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1907) was a poet, novelist, traveler, and editor. His book The Story of a Bad Boy (1870) was based on his own childhood, and it impacted other writers. Mark Twain went on to write a similar story, Tom Sawyer, that was published five years later.

    My mind lets go a thousand things
    Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
    And yet recalls the very hour--
    'T was noon by yonder village tower,
    And on the last blue noon in May--
    The wind came briskly up this way,
    Crisping the brook beside the road;
    Then, pausing here, set down its load
    Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly
    Two petals from that wild-rose tree.

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  7. 45. Vision

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    Sometimes it’s hard to see past what is right in front of us in order to see the beauty around us. It can be easy to allow circumstances to cloud our view. In this poem, mist and clouds fill the valley, preventing the people living there from seeing the beauty of the surrounding mountains.

    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?

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  8. 46. My Heart's In The Highlands

    • By Robert Burns

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    "My Heart's in the Highlands" by Robert Burns is a heartfelt expression of the speaker's deep yearning for his native Scotland. Through vivid imagery, Burns paints a picture of the rugged beauty and untamed landscapes of the Scottish Highlands. Despite being physically distant from his homeland, the speaker's heart remains firmly rooted in its soil, symbolizing his enduring connection and sense of belonging. The poem resonates with themes of homesickness and nostalgia, evoking a universal longing for a beloved place. With its emotive language and heartfelt sentiment, "My Heart's in the Highlands" continues to captivate readers with its portrayal of love for the land and the enduring power of home.

    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.

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  9. 47. June In Maine

    • By Hannah Augusta Moore

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    "June in Maine" by Hannah Augusta Moore is a vibrant and sensory poem that celebrates the beauty of summer. Through vivid imagery, repetition, personification, and alliteration, the poem conveys the enchanting atmosphere of June in Maine and the irresistible allure of nature's embrace. The poem employs vivid imagery, musical language, and a joyful tone to convey the wonder of June in Maine.

    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!

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  10. 48. What The Birds Teach Us

    • By J. R. Eastwood

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    "What The Birds Teach Us" by J. R. Eastwood highlights the resilience and determination of birds even in the bleakness of November. The poem portrays the birds as persistent creatures, braving the harsh weather and actively searching for sustenance. Their behavior serves as a lesson to humans, emphasizing that no matter how challenging the circumstances may be, as long as there is a will, there is always a way forward.

    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."

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  11. 49. The Sandpiper

    • By Celia Thaxter

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    "The Sandpiper" by Celia Thaxter (1835-1894) portrays the companionship between the narrator and a sandpiper bird as they navigate a lonely beach. The poem captures the dynamic and ever-changing coastal environment, with vivid descriptions of the waves, wind, and vessels at sea. The sandpiper symbolizes resilience and fearlessness, contrasting the human narrator's anxieties. The bond between the two is portrayed as unyielding and mutually comforting, emphasizing their shared existence as creatures of God.

    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?

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  12. 50. No Songs In Winter

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    Everything changes and slows down in winter. The world seems empty, and time moves slowly. For many, it can be a difficult season to get through, but one day, everything will return, and things will be restored.

    The sky is gray as gray may be,
    There is no bird upon the bough,
    There is no leaf on vine or tree.

    In the Neponset marshes now
    Willow-stems, rosy in the wind,
    Shiver with hidden sense of snow.

    So too 't is winter in my mind,
    No light-winged fancy comes and stays:
    A season churlish and unkind.

    Slow creep the hours, slow creep the days,
    The black ink crusts upon the pen--
    Just wait till bluebirds, wrens, and jays
    And golden orioles come again!

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  13. 51. The Mountain

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    "The Mountain" by Emily Dickinson depicts the majestic presence of a mountain on the plain. The mountain is a metaphor for a timeless grandfather figure, firmly seated in its eternal chair, and possessing a comprehensive awareness that extends everywhere. The poem further illustrates the mountain's significance by likening it to a revered figure, with the seasons gathering around it like children around a father. The mountain is depicted as a revered ancestor, the originator of each new day's dawn.

    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.

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  14. 52. 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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  15. 53. 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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  16. 54. 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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  17. 55. Dear March - Come In -

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    Dear March - Come In - by Emily Dickinson is a welcoming ode to the arrival of the month of March. In this brief yet evocative poem, Dickinson personifies March as a cherished guest, inviting it to enter warmly. Through its simple language and gentle tone, the poem captures the anticipation and hope associated with the transition from winter to spring. Dickinson's imagery evokes the awakening of nature and the promise of new beginnings as March heralds the arrival of warmer weather and the renewal of life.

    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—

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  18. 56. The Fish

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    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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  19. 57. A Winter Blue Jay

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    Sara Teasdale’s (1884-1933) “A Winter Blue Jay” was published in the book Rivers to the Sea in 1915. This poem features two lovers enjoying a beautiful winter day. They think nothing could be better than the sights they’ve already experienced, but then they spot a bluejay. Just as their day is filled with more beauty, so is their love as time moves forward. Sara Teasdale married Ernst Filsinger. Unfortunately, he traveled a lot for work, leaving her lonely, and their marriage ended in 1929.

    Crisply the bright snow whispered,
    Crunching beneath our feet;
    Behind us as we walked along the parkway,
    Our shadows danced,
    Fantastic shapes in vivid blue.
    Across the lake the skaters
    Flew to and fro,
    With sharp turns weaving
    A frail invisible net.
    In ecstasy the earth
    Drank the silver sunlight;
    In ecstasy the skaters
    Drank the wine of speed;
    In ecstasy we laughed
    Drinking the wine of love.
    Had not the music of our joy
    Sounded its highest note?
    But no,
    For suddenly, with lifted eyes you said,
    “Oh look!”
    There, on the black bough of a snow flecked maple,
    Fearless and gay as our love,
    A bluejay cocked his crest!
    Oh who can tell the range of joy
    Or set the bounds of beauty?

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