Nature ....

LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

Matthew Arnold (1822-1888)

In this lone, open glade I lie,

Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;

And at its end, to stay the eye,

Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand!

Birds here make song, each bird has his,

Across the girdling city's hum.

How green under the boughs it is!

How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come!

Sometimes a child will cross the glade

To take his nurse his broken toy;

Sometimes a thrush flit overhead

Deep in her unknown day's employ.

Here at my feet what wonders pass,

What endless, active life is here!

What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!

An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear.

Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod

Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd out,

And, eased of basket and of rod,

Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout.

In the huge world, which roars hard by,

Be others happy if they can!

But in my helpless cradle I

Was breathed on by the rural Pan.

I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd,

Think often, as I hear them rave,

That peace has left the upper world

And now keeps only in the grave.

Yet here is peace for ever new!

When I who watch them am away,

Still all things in this glade go through

The changes of their quiet day.

Then to their happy rest they pass!

The flowers upclose, the birds are fed,

The night comes down upon the grass,

The child sleeps warmly in his bed.

Calm soul of all things! make it mine

To feel, amid the city’s jar,

That there abides a peace of thine,

Man did not make, and cannot mar.

The will to neither strive nor cry,

The power to feel what others give!

Calm, calm me more! nor let me die

Before I have begun to live.

LITTLE THINGS

Orrick Johns  (1887-)

THERE'S nothing very beautiful and nothing very gay

   About the rush of faces in the town by day;

But a light tan cow in a pale green mead,

   That is very beautiful, beautiful indeed ...

And the soft March wind and the low March mist

Are better than kisses in a dark street kissed ...

   The fragrance of the forest when it wakes at dawn,

The fragrance of a trim green village lawn,

   The hearing of the murmur of the rain at play-

These things are beautiful, beautiful as day!

And I shan't stand waiting for love or scorn

   When the feast is laid for a day new-born ...

Oh, better let the little things I loved when little

   Return when the heart finds the great things brittle; A

And better is a temple made of bark and thong

   Than a tall stone temple that may stand too long.

LONE DOG

Irene Rutherford McLeod

I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;

I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;

I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;

I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.

I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,

A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,

Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,

But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,

Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.

O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,

Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!

LOW-ANCHORED CLOUD

Low-anchored cloud,

Newfoundland air.

Fountain-head and source of rivers,

Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,

And napkin spread by fays;

Drifting meadow of the air,

Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,

And in whose fenny labyrinth

The bittern booms and heron wades;

Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,

Bear only perfumes and the scent

Of healing herbs to just men’s fields.

MARCH

By the Pacific

Ina Coolbrith

Hark, from the budding boughs that burst of song!

   And where the leagues of emeralds stretch away,

   Out rings the meadow-lark’s ecstatic lay,

While the green hills the liquid notes prolong,

The slender callas shine, a saintly throng,

   From their broad leaves; and her slim stem upon,

   The royal rose unfolds her to the sun.

O gentle March! O turbulent and strong!

   The dove, the tiger, in thy changeful mood,

   For while the larks sing, and the linnets brood,

Lo! Sullen storm-clouds sweep the smiling dome;

   And roar of winds; and the mad tempest-wrath

   Beats on the blossomed plain, the forest path,

And the vast ocean smites to seething foam.

THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S—EASE

Bret Harte

BY scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting,

By furrowed glade and dell,

To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting,

Thou stayest them to tell

The delicate thought that cannot find expression,

For ruder speech too fair,

That, like thy petals, trembles in possession,

And scatters on the air.

The miner pauses in his rugged labor,

And, leaning on his spade,

Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbor

To see thy charms displayed.

But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises,

And for a moment clear

Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises,

And passes in a tear,

Some boyish vision of his Eastern village,

Of uneventful toil,

Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage

Above a peaceful soil.

One moment only; for the pick, uplifting,

Through root and fibre cleaves,

And on the muddy current slowly drifting

Are swept by bruised leaves.

And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion,

Thy work thou dost fulfill,

For on the turbid current of his passion

Thy face is shining still!

PENNINES IN APRIL

Ted Hughes

If this country were a sea (that is solid rock

Deeper than any sea) these hills heaving

Out of the east, mass behind mass, at this height

Hoisting leather and stones to the sky

Must burst upwards and topple into Lancashire.

Perhaps, as the earth turns, such ground-stresses

Do come rolling westward through the locked land.

Now, measuring the miles of silence

Your eye takes the strain: through

Landscapes gliding blue as water

Those barrellings of strength are heaving slowly and heave

To your feet and surf upwards

In a still, fiery air, hauling the imagination,

Carrying the larks upward.

SAID THE WEST WIND

Isabella Valancy Crawford (1850-1887)

I love old earth! Why should I lift my wings,

   My misty wings, so high above her breast

That flowers would shake no perfumes from their hearts,

   And waters breathe no whispers to the shores?

I love deep places builded high with woods,

   Deep, dusk, fem-closed, and starred with nodding blooms,

Close watched by hills, green, garlanded and tall.

On hazy wings, all shot with mellow gold, I float,

   I float thro' shadows clear as glass;

With perfumed feet I wander o'er the seas,

And touch white sails with gentle finger-tips;

I blow the faithless butterfly against

   The rose-red thorn, and thus avenge the rose;

I whisper low amid the solemn boughs,

   And stir a leaf where not my loudest sigh

Could move the emerald branches from their calm,--

   Leaves, leaves, I love ye much, for ye and I

Do make sweet music over all the earth!

I dream by glassy ponds, and, lingering, kiss

   The gold crowns of their lilies one by one,

As mothers kiss their babes who be asleep

   On the clear gilding of their infant heads,

Lest if they kissed the dimple on the chin,

   The rose flecks on the cheek or dewy lips,

The calm of sleep might feel the touch of love,

   And so be lost. I steal before the rain,

The longed-for guest of summer; as his fringe

   Of mist drifts slowly from the mountain peaks,

The flowers dance to my fairy pipe and fling

   Rich odours on my wings, and voices cry,

"The dear West Wind is damp, and rich with scent;

   We shall have fruits and yellow sheaves for this."

At night I play amidst the silver mists,

   And chase them on soft feet until they climb

And dance their gilded plumes against the stars;

   At dawn the last round primrose star I hide

By wafting o'er her some small fleck of cloud,

   And ere it passes comes the broad, bold Sun

And blots her from the azure of the sky,

   As later, toward his noon, he blots a drop

Of pollen-gilded dew from violet cup

   Set bluely in the mosses of the wood.

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

SUMMER SUN

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

GREAT is the sun, and wide he goes

Through empty heaven without repose;

And in the blue and glowing days

More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull

To keep the shady parlour cool,

Yet he will find a chink or two

To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic, spider-clad,

He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;

And through the broken edge of tiles

Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around

He bares to all the garden ground,

And sheds a warm and glittering look

Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,

Round the bright air with footing true,

To please the child, to paint the rose,

The gardener of the World, he goes.

TO AUTUMN

William Blake

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd

With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit

Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,

And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,

And all the daughters of the year shall dance!

Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

"The narrow bud opens her beauties to

The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;

Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and

Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,

Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,

And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

"The spirits of the air live in the smells

Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round

The gardens, or sits singing in the trees."

Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,

Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak

Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

TO A SEA-BIRD

Bret Harte (Santa Cruz, 1869)

SAUNTERING hither on listless wings,

   Careless vagabond of the sea,

Little thou heedest the surf that sings,

   The bar that thunders, the shale that rings,—

Give me to keep thy company.

Little thou hast, old friend, that 's new;

   Storms and wrecks are old things to thee;

Sick am I of these changes, too;

   Little to care for, little to rue, —

I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

All of thy wanderings, far and near,

   Bring thee at last to shore and me;

All of my journeyings end them here:

   This our tether must be our cheer, —

I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

Lazily rocking on ocean's breast,

   Something in common, old friend, have we:

Thou on the shingle seek'st thy nest,

   I to the waters look for rest, —

I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

TO MEADOWS

Robert Herrick

Ye have been fresh and green,

Ye have been fill'd with flowers;

And ye the walks have been

Where maids have spent their hours.

You have beheld how they

With wicker arks did come,

To kiss and bear away

The richer cowslips home.

You've heard them sweetly sing,

And seen them in a round;

Each virgin, like a spring,

With honeysuckles crown'd.

But now, we see none here,

Whose silvery feet did tread

And with dishevell'd hair

Adorn'd this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent

Your stock, and needy grown

You're left here to lament

Your poor estates alone.

THE TYGER

William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart,

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? And what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? What dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And water’d heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

THE UNNAMED LAKE

Frederick George Scott (1861-1944)

It sleeps among the thousand hills

Where no man ever trod,

And only nature's music fills

The silences of God.

Great mountains tower above its shore,

Green rushes fringe its brim,

And over its breast for evermore

The wanton breezes skim.

Dark clouds that intercept the sun

Go there in Spring to weep,

And there, when days are done.

White mists lie down to steep.

Sunrise and sunset crown with gold

The pinks of ageless stone,

Her winds have thundered from of old –

And storms have set their throne.

No echoes of the world afar

Disturb it night or day,

The sun and shadow, moon and star

Pass and repass for aye.

'Twas in the grey of early dawn,

When first the lake we spied,

And fragments of a cloud were drawn

Half down the mountain side.

Along the shore a heron flew,

And from a speck on high,

That hovered in the deepening blue,

We heard the fish-hawk's cry.

Among the cloud-capt solitudes,

No sound the silence broke,

Save when, in whispers down the woods,

The guardian mountains spoke.

Through tangled brush and dewy brake,

Returning whence we came,

We passed in silence, and the lake

We left without a name.

WINTER-TIME

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,

   A frost, fiery sleepy-head;

Blinks but an hour or two; and then,

   A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies,

   At morning in the dark I rise;

And shivering in my nakedness,

   By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit

   To warm my frozen bones a bit;

Or with a reindeer-sled, explore

   The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap

   Me in my comforter and cap;

The cold wind burns my face, and blows

   Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod;

   Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;

And tree and house, and hill and lake

   Are frosted like a wedding-cake.

THE WORSHIP OF NATURE

John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

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.

Its waves are kneeling on the strand,

   As kneels the human knee,

Their white locks bowing to the sand,

   The priesthood of the sea!

They pour their glittering treasures forth,

   Their gifts of pearl they bring,

And all the listening hills of earth

   Take up the song they sing.

The green earth sends its incense up

   From many a mountain shrine;

From folded leaf and dewy cup

   She pours her sacred wine.

The mists above the morning rills

   Rise white as wings of prayer;

The altar-curtains of the hills

   Are sunset’s purple air.

The winds with hymns of praise are loud,

   Or low with sobs of pain, --

The thunder-organ of the cloud,

   The dropping tears of rain.

With drooping head and branches crossed

   The twilight forest grieves,

Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost

   From all its sunlit leaves.

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.

WRITTEN IN THE EARLY SPRING

T. Campbell

I heard a thousand blended notes

While in a grove I sat reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,

The periwinkle trail’d its wreaths;

And ‘tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp’d and play’d.

Their thoughts I cannot measure,

But the least motion which they made

It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from Heaven be sent,

If such be Nature’s holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

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