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Nature poems

 / page 142 of 287 /

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30. Song—Composed in August

© Robert Burns

NOW westlin winds and slaught’ring guns
Bring Autumn’s pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs on whirring wings
Amang the blooming heather:

242. The Poet’s Progress

© Robert Burns

THOU, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign;
Of thy caprice maternal I complain.
The peopled fold thy kindly care have found,
The hornèd bull, tremendous, spurns the ground;

218. Song—Talk of him that’s Far Awa

© Robert Burns

MUSING on the roaring ocean,
Which divides my love and me;
Wearying heav’n in warm devotion,
For his weal where’er he be.

The Trees like Tassels—hit—and swung

© Emily Dickinson

The Trees like Tassels—hit—and swung—
There seemed to rise a Tune
From Miniature Creatures
Accompanying the Sun—

60. Epistle on J. Lapraik

© Robert Burns

But, to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen’s worn to the gristle,
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,
Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing or whistle,
Your friend and servant.

Burns’s Statue At Irvine

© Alfred Austin

Yes! let His place be there!
Where the lone moorland gazes on the sea,
Not in the squalid street nor pompous square:
So that he again may be
From contamination free,
His pedestal the plain, his canopy the air!

299. Sketch—New Year’s Day, 1790

© Robert Burns

THIS day, Time winds th’ exhausted chain;
To run the twelvemonth’s length again:
I see, the old bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,

496. Song—My Nanie’s awa

© Robert Burns

NOW in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins that bleat o’er her braes;
While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw,
But to me it’s delightless—my Nanie’s awa.

The Impossibility Conquered : Or, Love Your Neighbour As Yourself.

© Hannah More

Who loves himself to great excess,
You'll grant must love his neighbour less;
When self engrosses all the heart
How can another have a part?
Then if self-love most men enthrall,
A neighbour's share is none at all.

113. A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

© Robert Burns

The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him!
He may do weel for a’ he’s done yet,
But only—he’s no just begun yet.

Contemplation

© Francis Thompson

This morning saw I, fled the shower,
The earth reclining in a lull of power:
The heavens, pursuing not their path,
Lay stretched out naked after bath,
Or so it seemed; field, water, tree, were still,
Nor was there any purpose on the calm-browed hill.

313. Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots

© Robert Burns

NOW Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets o’ daisies white
Out o’er the grassy lea;

241. Written in Friars’ Carse Hermitage (Second Version)

© Robert Burns

THOU whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,
Be thou deckt in silken stole,
Grave these counsels on thy soul.

Triad

© Robinson Jeffers

Science, that makes wheels turn, cities grow,

Moribund people live on, playthings increase,

Ode to Simplicity

© William Taylor Collins

O thou, by Nature taught
 To breathe her genuine thought
 In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;
 Who first on mountains wild,
 In Fancy, loveliest child,
 Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nurs'd the pow'rs of song!

263. Song—The Gardener wi’ his Paidle

© Robert Burns

WHEN rosy May comes in wi’ flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers,
Then busy, busy are his hours,
The Gard’ner wi’ his paidle.

The Nightingale : A Conversation Poem

© Samuel Taylor Coleridge

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!

437. Song—Thine am I, my faithful Fair

© Robert Burns

THINE am I, my faithful Fair,
Thine, my lovely Nancy;
Ev’ry pulse along my veins,
Ev’ry roving fancy.

351. Second Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry

© Robert Burns

Critics—appall’d, I venture on the name;
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame:
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes;
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose:

On the Death of His Eldest Son

© George Canning

Though short thy space, God's unimpeach'd decrees

Which made that shorten'd space one long disease;

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