Nature poems
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'The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 6
© Publius Vergilius Maro
HE said, and wept; then spread his sails before
The winds, and reachd at length the Cumæan shore:
South-West Wind In The Woodland
© George Meredith
The silence of preluded song -
AEolian silence charms the woods;
To her most Honoured Father Thomas Dudley Esq; these humbly presented.
© Anne Bradstreet
Dear Sir of late delighted with the sight
Of your four Sisters cloth'd in black and white,
What Rabbi Jehosha Said
© James Russell Lowell
Rabbi Jehosha had the skill
To know that Heaven is in God's will;
And doing that, though for a space
One heart-beat long, may win a grace
As full of grandeur and of glow
As Princes of the Chariot know.
The Broken Circle
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
I STOOD On Sarum's treeless plain,
The waste that careless Nature owns;
Lone tenants of her bleak domain,
Loomed huge and gray the Druid stones.
For The Commemoration Services
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
FOUR summers coined their golden light in leaves,
Four wasteful autumns flung them to the gale,
Four winters wore the shroud the tempest weaves,
The fourth wan April weeps o'er hill and vale;
Sonnet 7: When Nature
© Sir Philip Sidney
When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes,
In color black why wrapp'd she beams so bright?
Would she in beamy black, like painter wise,
Frame daintiest lustre, mix'd of shades and light?
Correspondances (Correspondences)
© Charles Baudelaire
La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliers
Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;
L'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles
Qui l'observent avec des regards familiers.
The Cornelian
© George Gordon Byron
No specious splendour of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre only once it shone,
And blushes modest as the giver.
Retrospection
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
WHEN you and I were young, the days
Were filled with scent of pink and rose,
Sonnet 41: Having This Day My Horse
© Sir Philip Sidney
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,
August
© James Whitcomb Riley
A day of torpor in the sullen heat
Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream
The panting cattle lave their lazy feet,
With drowsy eyes, and dream.
The Non-Combatant
© Sir Henry Newbolt
Among a race high-handed, strong of heart,
Sea-rovers, conquerors, builders in the waste,
The Lady Of La Garaye - Part III
© Caroline Norton
And either tries to hide the thoughts that wring
Their secret hearts; and both essay to bring
Some happy topic, some yet lingering dream,
Which they with cheerful words shall make their theme;
But fail,--and in their wistful eyes confess
All their words never own of hopelessness.
A Modest Request
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
SCENE,--a back parlor in a certain square,
Or court, or lane,--in short, no matter where;
Time,--early morning, dear to simple souls
Who love its sunshine and its fresh-baked rolls;
Persons,--take pity on this telltale blush,
That, like the AEthiop, whispers, "Hush, oh hush!"
The Spirit Of The Ideal
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
Sweet sister spirits, ye whose starlight tresses
Stream on the night-winds as ye float along,
Missioned with hope to man-and with caresses
Sonnet XIX
© Caroline Norton
But since, in all that brief Life's narrow scope,
No day pass'd by without some gentle deed,
Let us not "mourn like them that have no hope,"
Though sharp the stroke,--and suddenly decreed;
To Captain Fryatt
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Trampled yet red is the last of the embers,
Red the last cloud of a sun that has set;
What of your sleeping though Flanders remembers,
What of your waking, if England forget?
