Poet: Douglas Malloch
Nature loves neither silences nor noise.
She has her silence and she has her sound.
Yet all the melody that she employs
But serves to make her silence more profound.
The sweeping desert, yellow, bare and mute.
Seems deader for a wheeling vulture's scream.
The single quaver of a lonely lute
But makes the night seem nearer to a dream.
The sea is silent far from shores unseen,
Save where a ripple tumbles to abyss;
As whitened water makes the green more green.
The day is calmer for the bubble's hiss.
From such as these I learn the forest's charm -
'Tis not its silence, silent though it be;
It is its sound unpoisoned with alarm,
Its whisper like the whisper o£ the sea.
Shouting nor silence, neither enters here -
Only the melody of far-off things.
A drifting cloud makes skies more fair appear.
The wood is stiller for the whir of wings.
By William Steward Gordon
Blessed is the man that loveth Nature,
For he shall never be lonely!
Yea, though he loseth himself in the forest
He is still in the midst of friends.
The trees stretch their arms in protection;
They invite him under their shelter.
Their roots take hold of the mountain
Like the stakes of a tent set firmly.
The moss on the bark is a compass
To tell him whither he goeth;
It points his direction as surely
As the guide-board out on the highway.
The winds and the clouds are his servants;
He knoweth their course in the season.
Yea, the tree turns its face from the tempest.
So the burden of branches is southward.
The beasts and the birds are his comrades;
He knoweth their signs and their habits.
He knoweth their challenge of anger.
And their milder language of mating.
The rivulet calls him with laughter.
And the pool is his only mirror.
He looks, and the beard on his bosom
Is blended with moss on the cedars.
He knoweth the roots that are wholesome,
And the edible barks and the berries —
The camas that holdeth no poison,
The celery and rice of the lakelets.
Yea, blessed the man of the mountains!
And thrice blessed is he if he follows
The trail that leads over the summit
On the highway to regions immortal.
The years hang as light on his shoulders
As the grizzled wings of the eagle.
They are only fanciful burdens,
For they help him to fly away.
His is the calling courageous:
He blazed the trail for his children.
His footprints are waymarks of safety
And his bones are a guide to the living.
More Tree Poems
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
I own the charms of lovely Nature; still,
In human nature more delight I find.
Though sweet the murmuring voices of the rill,
I much prefer the voices of my kind.
I like the roar of cities. In the mart,
Where busy toilers strive for place and gain,
I seem to read humanity's great heart,
And share its hopes, its pleasures, and its pain.
The rush of hurrying trains that cannot wait,
The tread of myriad feet, all say to me:
"You are the architect of your own fate;
Toil on, hope on, and dare to do and be."
I like the jangled music of the loud
Bold bells; the whistle's sudden shrill reply;
And there is inspiration in a crowd -
A magnetism flashed from eye to eye.
My sorrows all seem lightened, and my joys
Augmented, when the comrade world walks near;
Close to mankind my soul best keeps its poise.
Give me the great town's bustle, strife, and noise.
And let who will, hold Nature's calm more dear.
Poet: Berton Braley
I'm sick of your mobs and machinery,
I'm weary of second hand thrills,
I'm tired of your two-by-four scenery,
Your nice little valleys and hills;
I want to see peaks that are bare again
And ragged and rugged and high,
To know the old tang in the air again
And the blue of the clear western sky!
Once more in each fibre and fold of me
I feel the old wonderment brew,
And again has the spell taken hold of me,
The spell of the mountains I knew;
So the city means nothing but slavery,
And my heart is like lead in my breast,
And life will be stale and unsavory
Till I stand on the hills of the west.
Let the homebodies "hobo" and "rover" me,
Poor plodders, they never can know
How the fret for the hills has come over me
And the fever that bids me to go
Away from traditions gone mouldering,
Away from the paths overtrod,
To the place where the mountains are shouldering
Right up to the Archways of God!
Poems About Mountains
Poet: Alexander Smith
Beauty still walketh on the earth and air
Our present sunsets are as rich in gold
As ere the Iliad's music was out-rolled;
The roses of the Spring are ever fair,
'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and pair
And the deep sea still foams its music old.
So, if we are at all divinely souled.
This beauty will unloose our bonds of care.
Poems about Sunset
Poet: William Cullen Bryant
Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
When our mother Nature laughs around;
When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?
There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;
The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den,
And the wilding bee hums merrily by.
The clouds are at play in the azure space,
And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale,
And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
And there they roll on the easy gale.
There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bovver,
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.
And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray.
On the leaping waters and gay young isles;
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.
The March wind blows the snow away,
And blows away the cold.
He's not afraid of anything,
He is so very bold.
He shakes the sleepy trees about.
And calls for them to wake;
For April soon will come along
Their summer gowns to make.
He whistles to the little brooks
That now with gladness sing.
And sends them running on their way
To carry news of spring.
Poems About The Wind
Poet: Leonora Milliken Boss
Far famed the grand old forest,
As the one whose name it bears;
Calling, calling to the weary.
To lay aside all cares.
And come and rest, where Nature
Her blessed boon can bring,
Of health and strength and calmness,
In all and everything.
There is healing in the wildwood.
Near the cedar and the pine;
There is healing in the songbird,
'Tis a tonic, more than wine.
The soughing of the pines can lull you.
To a quiet few can know,
For you're nearer to the Father;
These are gifts he would bestow.
And so, when the grand old forest
Sends forth a call to you.
Obey the summons and answer;
'Tis the least that you can do.
For the renovation and needed rest
Will be given in hospital here.
Or, rather, in God's free sunlight,
Where the cedar and pine are near.
Poet: Mary C. Plummer
Tell me, little babbling brook.
Of the song you sing
As you flow through hedge and nook.
Let your sweet song ring.
I have stood one half an hour.
Listening to your chatter;
All that I can understand
Is just: Splatter, splatter.
You say if I should place my ear
Near your pretty dimple
I could hear your lovely song.
So beautiful and simple.
Yes, now to me it is quite plain
What a lovely sweet refrain!
Words are, though today comes rain.
Sunshine will return again.
Poet: Robert Leighton
The breathing flowers, the forest-buds unfurl'd,
Are not the expanded seedlings that we ween,
But sweet transfigurations from the world
That lies within the seen.
For this the type in which God prints His thought —
This glorious theatre of shifting things;
And whosoever has its meaning caught,
For him all Nature sings.
Would'st thou hear Nature's voice? Be one with her,
In simple purity, perennial youth;
Her child in wonder, and her worshipper
In spirit and in truth.
Then will the daisy, from its modest eye,
Let out its secrets, and the starry scroll
River and ocean — all of earth or sky —
Interpret to thy soul.
You may also enjoy our collection of ocean poems
More Butterfly Poems
Poet: Charles Fenno Hoffman
How silently yon streamlet slides
From out the twilight-shaded bowers!
How, soft as sleep, it onward glides
In sunshine through its dreaming flowers.
That tranquil wave, now turn'd to gold
Beneath the slowly westering sun,
It is the same, far on the wold.
Whose foam this morn we gazed upon.
The leaden sky, the barren waste,
The torrent we this morning knew,
How changed are all! as now we haste
To bid them, with the day, adieu!
Ah! thus should life and love at last
Grow bright and sweet when death is near:
May we, our course of trial passed.
Thus bathed in beauty glide from here!
Read poems about the sky
Poet: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
Poet: Frederic Lawrence Knowles
God of the roadside weed,
Grant I may humbly serve the humblest need.
God of the scarlet rose,
Give me the beauty that Thy love bestows.
God of the hairy bee,
Help me to suck deep joys from all I see.
God of the spider's lace,
Let me, from mine own heart, unwind such grace.
God of the lily's cup,
Fill me! I hold this empty chalice up.
God of the sea-gull's wing,
Bear me above each dark and turbulent thing.
God of the watchful owl,
Help me to see at midnight, like this fowl.
God of the antelope,
Teach me to scale the highest crags of Hope.
God of the eagle's nest,
Oh, let me make my eyrie near thy breast!
God of the burrowing mole,
Let cold earth have no terrors for my soul.
God of the chrysalis,
Grant that my grave may be a cell of bliss.
God of the butterfly,
Help me to vanquish Death, although I die.
Poet: Arthur Linton
Tenderly on the parched brown earth
The rain falls gently singing,
And with its freshness, to the dearth
Of the dry ground, new beauty's birth
As a friend's face when seen again
Sets the heart-pulses ringing;
So the desired delights of rain,
Joy to the desolate weary grain
And when its grace has thrilled the ground,
From that dark grave upspringing
Its soul within the flowers is found,
On delicate odours all around
Poems About Rain
There is a book, who runs may read,
Which heavenly truth imparts.
And all the lore its scholars need,
Pure eyes and Christian hearts.
The works of God above, below,
Within us, and around.
Are pages in that book to show
How God himself is found.
The glorious sky, embracing all,
Is like the Maker's love.
Wherewith encompassed, great and small
In peace and order move.
The dew of heaven is like His grace.
It steals in silence down;
But where it lights, the favored place.
By richest fruits is known.
Thou, who hast given me eyes to see
And love this sight so fair.
Give me a heart to find out Thee,
And read Thee everywhere.
Poems About Leaves
Poet: Nelly M. Hutchinson
Whether my heart be glad or no,
The summers come, the summers go,
The lanes grow dark with dying leaves,
Icicles hang beneath the eaves,
The asters wither to the snow;
Thus doth the summer end and go,
Whether my life be glad or no.
Whether my life be sad or no,
The winters come, the winters go,
The sunshine plays with baby leaves,
Swallows build about the eaves,
The lovely wild flowers bend and blow;
Thus doth the winter end and go,
Whether my life be sad or no.
Yet Mother Nature gives to me
A fond and patient sympathy;
In my own heart I find the charm
To make her tender, near, and warm;
Through summer sunshine, winter snow,
She clasps me, sad or glad or no.
Poet: B. E. Warren
Rippling brook and flowing stream
In the sparkling sunlight gleam,
Making merry faces beam
With their gladsome story;
Soft their music floats away,
Where the evening zephyrs play,
Where the siren singers stay
In their verdant glory.
See blest virgin Nature smile,
In her queenly robes the while;
Man of earth she would beguile
With her flowing tresses.
Bright her face with blooming flowers,
Sweet the odor from her bowers,
Fresh her sparkling April showers,
Mid her warm caresses.
Hills and valleys robed in green,
Winding rivers flow between,
There the rustic rocks are seen
Where the water splashes;
On the rising silvery spray,
Rainbow colors seem to play,
Painted by the orb of day,
In the sunlight flashes.
Soft the kisses of her lips,
Sweet the honeydew she sips,
From her hand of mercy drips
Every single blessing.
With her arms embracing me,
I am safe as I can be,
When I come on bended knee,
Nature's God confessing.
Poet: Nettie Steeves
How beautiful are the hills
And the green valleys down below
With the flowers in the woodland
Where the Lady's Slippers grow.
And the gurgling of the brooks
The murmuring of the streams
The moaning of the pine trees,
It is like a fairy dream.
With Nature in all its beauty
There is nothing else so fair
It needs no touch from an artist's brush
For Nature has her beauty there.
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
Good, kindly Mother Nature plays
No favorites but smiles for all
Who care to tread her pleasant ways
And listen to the song birds' call.
The tulips and the violets grow
For all the world to gaze upon;
With beauty are the hills aglow
Not for a few, but everyone.
Her grass grows green for rich and poor.
For proud and humble, high and low;
Beside the toiler's cottage door
Her morning glories sweetly grow.
In palace or in tenement
Her sunbeams just as gayly dance;
No special charm to one is sent.
No favored few possess her glance.
Her skies are blue for one and all.
Her flowers for every mortal bloom;
Her rains upon all creatures fall.
For all the world is her perfume.
The rich man gets no sweeter smile
Than does the ragged barefoot boy;
Yes, all who live and love the while.
May Mother Nature's charms enjoy.
Ah, what a lesson we may learn
From kindly Mother Nature's ways!
A smiling face we seldom turn
To strangers, when we meet their gaze.
A kindly word we seldom speak
Except unto a favored few.
And some return we often seek
For every kindly deed we do.
Poet: John Greenleaf Whittier
The harp at Nature's advent strung
Has never ceased to play;
The song the stars of morning sung
Has never died away.
And prayer is made, and praise is given
By all things near and far:
The ocean looketh up to heaven
And mirrors every star;
The green earth sends her incense up
From many a mountain shrine;
From folded leaf and dewy cup
She pours her sacred wine;
The blue sky is the temple's arch;
Its transept, earth and air;
The music of its starry march,
The chorus of a prayer:
So Nature keeps the reverent frame
With which her years began,
And all her signs and voices shame
The prayerless heart of man.