Famous Nature Poems

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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—

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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!