Nature poems

 / page 222 of 287 /
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From 'Religious Musings'

© Samuel Taylor Coleridge

ITHERE is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind,
Omnific. His most holy name is Love.
Truth of subliming import! with the which
Who feeds and saturates his constant soul,

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Italy : 43. The Bag Of Gold

© Samuel Rogers

I dine very often with the good old Cardinal * * and, I
should add, with his cats; for they always sit at his table,
and are much the gravest of the company.  His beaming
countenance makes us forget his age; nor did I ever see

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Beauty. Part II

© Henry James Pye

Of all that Nature's rural prospects yield,

  The chrystal fountain and the flow'ry field,

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The Lime-tree Bower my Prison [Addressed to Charles Lamb, o

© Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost
Beauties and feelings, such as would have been
Most sweet to my remembrance even when age

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The Nightingale

© 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!

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Ballad

© Eustache Deschamps

Here is no flower, no violet e'er so sweet,
Nor tree, nor brier, whatever charms they show, Beauty nor worth where all perfections meet,
No man, nor woman, though her fate bestow
Bright locks, fair skin, cheeks that like roses glow,
Or wise or foolish nought by nature made,
Which length of time shall age not, and degrade, But the fierce hunter death shall hold in chase, And which, when old, the world will not upbraid: Old age ends all, in youth alone is grace.

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Human Life

© Samuel Taylor Coleridge

If dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom
Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare
As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom,
Whose sound and motion not alone declare,

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The Captivity

© Oliver Goldsmith

FIRST PROPHET.
AIR.
Our God is all we boast below,
To him we turn our eyes;
And every added weight of woe
Shall make our homage rise. 

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Fears In Solitude

© Samuel Taylor Coleridge

[Image][Image][Image][Image][Image] May my fears,
My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts
And menace of the vengeful enemy
Pass like the gust, that roared and died away
In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard
In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass.

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To A Young Ass

© Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Its mother being tethered near itPoor little Foal of an oppress?d race!
I love the languid patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.

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The Song Of Life

© George Essex Evans

  Sing thou of Toil,
Of toil that moulds to-day the larger morrow!
  Move with stout heart on Life’s great battle-field
  And wear the motto “Progress” on thy shield.
All that is best is won through toil and sorrow.
  Sing thou of Toil!

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The Inward Morning

© Henry David Thoreau

What is it gilds the trees and clouds,
And paints the heavens so gay,
But yonder fast-abiding light
With its unchanging ray?

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I am the autumnal sun

© Henry David Thoreau

Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature
-- not his Father but his Mother stirs
within him, and he becomes immortal with her
immortality. From time to time she claims
kindredship with us, and some globule
from her veins steals up into our own.

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Friendship

© Henry David Thoreau

I fain would ask my friend how it can be,
But when the time arrives,
Then Love is more lovely
Than anything to me,
And so I'm dumb.

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Lines Written In Early Spring

© William Wordsworth

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

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Paradise Lost : Book V.

© John Milton


Now Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime

Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl,

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Dream Song 82: Op. posth. no. 5

© John Berryman

Maskt as honours, insult like behaving
missiles homes. I bow, & grunt 'Thank you.
I'm glad you could come
so late.' All loves are gratified. I'm having
to screw a little thing I have to screw.
Good nature is over.

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The Two Peacocks of Bedfont

© Thomas Hood

I
Alas! That breathing Vanity should go
Where Pride is buried,—like its very ghost,
Uprisen from the naked bones below,

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To The Poet On The Subject Of Flowers

© Arthur Rimbaud

Thus continually towards the dark azure,
Where the sea of topazes shimmers,
Will function in your evening
The Lilies, those pessaries of ectasy!

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In Memoriam A. H. H.: 54.

© Alfred Tennyson

Behold, we know not anything;
  I can but trust that good shall fall
  At last-far off-at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.