Nature poems
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The Epistle Of Grace Sent To The Seek Man
© Thomas Hoccleve
I' Gracë quen, and heuenly princesse, As depute be the souereyn kyng eterne,In erthe a-lowe to be the gyderesseThat liste the redy wey[ë]s for to lerne,In pilgrymagë him selff to gouerne Gretyng, with yerde & lore of disciplyne,To the that hast, and must be, one of myn.
It is me don to knowe & vnderstonde, Þat, this dethës seruaunt, malady,The hath arrest, and holdith now in hande,And the oppressith, nought knowyng the forwhi.I wil therfore, as for thi remedy, Ordeyne[n] in my best[ë] manere wise;I rede þe that thi self þou wel aduyse.
There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods
© George Gordon Byron
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
Mogg Megone - Part I.
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Who stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone,
Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky,
Admonition
© William Wordsworth
WELL may'st thou halt-and gaze with brightening eye!
The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
From The Conspirator
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
SCENE.
[A garden; Arnold De Malpas and Catharine discovered walking slowly towards a summerhouse in the distance].
CATHARINE.
Captain Dobbin
© Kenneth Slessor
CAPTAIN Dobbin, having retired from the South Seas
In the dumb tides of , with a handful of shells,
A few poisoned arrows, a cask of pearls,
And five thousand pounds in the colonial funds,
Metamorphoses: Book The Eleventh
© Ovid
The End of the Eleventh Book.
Translated into English verse under the direction of
Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
William Congreve and other eminent hands
An Allegory On Man
© Thomas Parnell
A thoughfull Being, long and spare,
Our race of Mortals call him Care,
(Were Homer living well he knew
What Name the Gods woud call him too)
With fine Mechanick Genius wrought,
And lovd to work tho no one bought.
And Now In Accents Deep And Low
© Washington Allston
And now, in accents deep and low,
Like voice of fondly-cherish'd woe,
The Study
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
YET in the darksome crypt I left so late,
Whose only altar is its rusted grate,âÂ
The Dark, Blue Sea
© George Gordon Byron
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
Unseasonable Snows
© Alfred Austin
The leaves have not yet gone; then why do ye come,
O white flakes falling from a dusky cloud?
The Fiftieth Birthday Of Agassiz. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It was fifty years ago
In the pleasant month of May,
In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,
A child in its cradle lay.
The Brook
© Madison Julius Cawein
To it the forest tells
The mystery that haunts its heart and folds
On Planting A Tree At Inveraray
© James Russell Lowell
Who does his duty is a question
Too complex to be solved by me,
But he, I venture the suggestion,
Does part of his that plants a tree.
I Bless You, Forests
© Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy
I bless my staff and my humble rags.
And the steppe from beginning to end,
And the sun's light, and night's darkness,
The Borough. Letter II: The Church
© George Crabbe
"WHAT is a Church?"--Let Truth and Reason speak,
They would reply, "The faithful, pure, and meek;
