Poet: Patience Strong
"Listen - that's a lovely word -
it makes us quiet and still -
There's so much in the world to hear -
The birds that chirp and trill. . . . .
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
Out in the valley, away from the plain;
Breathing the air of the mountains again;
Away from the city, its noise and its grime,
Its hustle and bustle and swift race with time. . . . .
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
It's good to have the trees again, the singing of the breeze again,
It's good to see the lilacs bloom as lovely as of old.
It's good that we can feel again the touch of beauties real again,
For hearts and minds, of sorrow now, have all that they can hold. . . . .
The poem, "Constant Beauty", by Edgar A. Guest is a heartfelt poem that reminds us of the enduring beauty of nature, even in challenging times. He expresses the joy of witnessing trees, lilacs, and roses flourishing just as they always have, despite the world being filled with difficulties and sadness. The poem emphasizes the constancy of nature's beauty, offering comfort and a sense of continuity in a changing world.
Poet: Nixon Waterman
Slipping, sliding, dancing, gilding,
Goes the brook, so glad and gay;
Where the sun's bright beams abiding
Fleck with gold - the shining way. . . . .
Poet: Daniel C. Colesworthy
Don't kill the birds — the little birds
That sing about your door,
Soon as the joyous spring has come,
And chilling storms are o'er,
The little birds, how sweet they sing!
O, let them joyous live;
And never seek to take the life
Which you can never give . . . . .
Poet: Nixon Waterman
Through the treetops gently swaying
Soft and low the wind a straying,
In the branches pauses to gently
Swing the birds that sweetly, merrily chirp and sing . . . . .
"Wind In The Trees" by Nixon Waterman is a poem that paints a vivid picture of nature's serenity. The poem describes the wind as it gently sways through the treetops, causing the birds to sing merrily. It whispers through the starlit night, only to disappear when the day breaks. The poem compares the song of the wind to a haunting memory, and as it weaves through the oak tree branches, it brings a lighter and brighter tune. Ultimately, the poem captures the fleeting and enchanting essence of the wind in the trees, as it plays its delightful and soothing role in the natural world.
Poet: Nixon Waterman
"It seems to me I'd like to go
Where bells don't ring, nor whistles blow;
Nor clocks ner'er strike, nor gongs ne'er sound,
But where there's stillness all around . . . . .
Famous Poems About The Seasons
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: 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.
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!
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.
