Nature poems

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A Psalm Of Patience

© Joseph Furphy

O kid! with face of healthy tan,

With lunch-bag, books and slate;

Ireland

© William Watson

In the wild and lurid desert, in the thunder-travelled ways,

'Neath the night that ever hurries to the dawn that still delays,

Cherwell Stream

© Robert Laurence Binyon

Green banks and gliding river!
What air from what far place
Comes down your waters' face
And makes your willows shiver?

Down, indignation! hence, ideas foul!
Away the shocking image from my soul!
Let kindlier visitants attend my way,
Beneath approaching _Summer's_ fervid ray;
Nor thankless glooms obtrude, nor cares annoy,
Whilst the sweet theme is _universal joy_.

To Mrs. Professor In Defense Of My Cat's Honor And Not Only

© Czeslaw Milosz

My valiant helper, a small-sized tiger
Sleeps sweetly on my desk, by the computer,
Unaware that you insult his tribe.

At Shelleys Grave

© Alfred Austin

Beneath this marble, mute of praise,

Is hushed the heart of One

Ode To Liberty

© William Taylor Collins

(STROPHE)

Who shall awake the Spartan fife,

View From The Top Of Black Comb

© William Wordsworth

THIS Height a ministering Angel might select:
For from the summit of BLACK COMB (dread name
Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range
Of unobstructed prospect may be seen

The Testimony Of Divine Adoption

© William Cowper

How happy are the newborn race,
Partakers of adopting grace!
How pure the bliss they share!
Hid from the world and all its eyes,
Within their heart the blessing lies,
And conscience feels it there.

I Feel That I am Free

© Owen Suffolk

To me the sky looks bluer,

And the green grass greener still,

To A Mouse, (The best Laid Schemes O' Mice An' Men)

© Robert Burns

Wee, sleeket, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi' bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

"Six years, six cycles of dead hours"

© Richard Monckton Milnes

Six years, six cycles of dead hours,
Six falls of leaves, six births of flowers!
It is not that, you know full well,
That makes my labouring bosom swell,