Famous Nature Poems - Page 2

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.

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.

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.

How I love to hear the rustle of the leaves upon the trees
When the foliage of summer is a moving in the breeze
When the oak and beech and maple are a tuning up the air
As they hear the quaking aspen sending signals everywhere.

The deciduous forest people are a music making band
With their symphonies so simple that a child can understand
For there's meaning in their rhythm and a pleasure 'mong the trees
When the wind is blowing through them and a stirring all the leaves.

There's an overture in whispers which is soothing to the ear
Then a chorus full of comfort just a chasing out your fear
As the louder it is sounding and the louder yet again
Till at last are joys abounding when it falls in sweet refrain.

Yes, it brings you heaps of solace when the wind is blowing soft
In a lullaby of nature which will bear you way aloft
Till you leave this world of trouble with its fretting and its care
As you listen to the rustle of the leaves a playing there.

O, I love to stop and hearken to the music of the trees
As the wind is soughing through them or a playing with the leaves
There's a harmony that holds you in the noises of the wood
Where I never tire of listening for it does a fellow good.

The woodpecker pecked out a little round hole
And made him a house in the telephone pole.

One day when I watched he poked out his head,
And he had on a hood and a collar of red.

When the streams of rain pour out of the sky,
And the sparkles of lightning go flashing by,

And the big, big wheels of thunder roll,
He can snuggle back in the telephone pole.

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.

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.

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 !

Sitting to-day in the sunshine
    That touched me with fingers of love,
I thought of the manifold blessings
    God scatters on earth, from above;
And they seemed, as I numbered them over,
    Far more than we merit, or need,
And all that we lack is the angels
    To make earth a heaven indeed.

The winter brings long, pleasant evenings,
    The spring brings a promise of flowers
That summer breathes into fruition;
    And autumn brings glad, golden hours.
The woodlands re-echo with music,
    The moonbeams ensilver the sea;
There is sunlight and beauty about us,
    And the world is as fair as can be.

But mortals are always complaining!
    Each one thinks his own a sad lot,
And forgetting the good things about him,
    Goes mourning for those he has not.
Instead of the star-spangled heavens,
    We look on the dust at our feet;
We drain out the cup that is bitter,
    Forgetting the one that is sweet.

We mourn o'er the thorn in the flower,
    Forgetting its odor and bloom;
We pass by a garden of blossoms,
    To weep o'er the dust of the tomb.
There are blessings unnumbered about us--
    Like the leaves of the forest they grow;
And the fault is our own--not the Giver's--
    That we have not Eden below.

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.

O gift of God! O perfect day:
Whereon shall no man work, but play;
Whereon it is enough for me,
Not to be doing, but to be!

Through every fibre of my brain,
Through every nerve, through every vein,
I feel the electric thrill, the touch
Of life, that seems almost too much.

I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.

And over me unrolls on high
The splendid scenery of the sky,
Where though a sapphire sea the sun
Sails like a golden galleon,

Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,
Whose steep sierra far uplifts
Its craggy summits white with drifts.

Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms
The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!
Blow, winds! and bend within my reach
The fiery blossoms of the peach!

O Life and Love! O happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
O heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?

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!

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.

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.

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.

Full of joy is early Summer,
    Growth and warmth and golden light;
Every day is crowned with beauty,
    Full of loveliness the night.
Dazzling sunshine brings the roses,
    Fills the whole bright world with bloom;
Day and night rejoice together,
    Banished now are doubt and gloom.

Skies serene and loving woo us
    To the woods and fields to-day;
Who would linger long when Nature
    Calls him to her feast away?
Earth a veritable Eden
    In the glowing sunlight gleams,
Life a grand and noble epic,
    Viewed from such a standpoint seems.

Gladness reigns the wide world over,
    Early Summer's golden light
Fills each bosom with thanksgiving
    For the season's blessings bright.
Happy harvest days are coming,
    Full of joy, throughout the land;
Where the fields of grain are waving,
    Full-eared wheat in shocks shall stand.

Perfect days that pass too quickly,
    One by one they come and go,
Each in turn reveals rare blessing,
    Beauty passing all below.
Balmy air and bright green landscape,
    Glowing eve and dewy dawn;
Sunlight's gold on field and forest—
    We shall grieve when these are gone.

Joyous time to him that loveth
    Growth and warmth and golden light;
Day is full of blessed beauty,
    Full of peace the dewy night.
Early Summer! time of roses,
    All the earth is filled with bloom;
Every heart in thee rejoices,
    Banished now are doubt and gloom.

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?

"Come, little leaves," said the wind one day.
"Come o'er the meadows with me, and play'
Put on your dress of red and gold,—
Summer is gone, and the days grow cold."

Soon as the leaves heard the wind's loud call,
Down they came fluttering, one and all;
Over the brown fields they danced and flew,
Singing the soft little songs they knew.

"Cricket, good-by, we've been friends so long;
Little brook, sing us your farewell song,—
Say you are sorry to see us go;
Ah! you will miss us, right well we know."

"Dear little lambs, in your fleecy fold,
Mother will keep you from harm and cold;
Fondly we've watched you in vale and glade;
Say, will you dream of our loving shade?"

Dancing and whirling, the little leaves went;
Winter had called them, and they were content.
Soon fast asleep in their earthy beds,
The snow laid a coverlet over their heads.

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.

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.