Reading poetry gives us an opportunity to see life through the eyes of another. We can walk in their shoes, live through their experiences and envision their memories. It has been used for thousands of years as a guide to help us better understand the world, each other and ourselves.

All poetry is deliberate, and poets use poetic devices to make their work more emotional, beautiful and impactful. So, when you are reading, make sure you take note of these devices. Why are certain words used? Look at the poem on the page. How is it structured? Does it rhyme? Why do you think the poet chose to structure it in this way? Tune into how the poem makes you feel, and question why it makes you feel that way.

Here is a collection of nature poems that I hope will inspire you to explore, enjoy and appreciate the transcendent and fragile beauty of the world around you.

Most of these poems are suitable for beginners, but I have included a few more challenging poems for older readers towards the end of the anthology.

You can find annotated versions of these poems and sources for each at the end of this page. I hope these annotations help you to analyse the poems, and think about how the poet is trying to make you feel!

At the bottom of my garden

There's a hedgehog and a frog

And a lot of creepy-crawlies

Living underneath a log,

There's a baby daddy long legs

And an easy-going snail

And a family of woodlice,

All are on my nature trail.

There are caterpillars waiting

For their time to come to fly,

There are worms turning the earth over

As ladybirds fly by,

Birds will visit, cats will visit

But they always chose their time

And I've even seen a fox visit

This wild garden of mine.

Squirrels come to nick my nuts

And busy bees come buzzing

And when the night time comes

Sometimes some dragonflies come humming,

My garden mice are very shy

And I've seen bats that growl

And in my garden I have seen

A very wise old owl.

My garden is a lively place

There's always something happening,

There's this constant search for food

And then there's all that flowering,

When you have a garden

You will never be alone

And I believe we all deserve

A garden of our own.

Source: [ Benjamin Zephaniah. “Nature Trail”. Poem Hunter, 2003 https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nature-trail/ ]

Down in a green and shady bed

A modest violet grew;

Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,

As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower,

Its colors bright and fair;

It might have graced a rosy bower,

Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom,

In modest tints arrayed;

And there diffused a sweet perfume,

Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go,

This pretty flower to see;

That I may also learn to grow

In sweet humility.

Source: [ Jane Taylor. “The Violet”. Poets.org. https://poets.org/poem/violet ]

THE steadfast coursing of the stars,

The waves that ripple to the shore,

The vigorous trees which year by year

Spread upwards more and more;

The jewel forming in the mine,

The snow that falls so soft and light,

The rising and the setting sun,

The growing glooms of night;

All natural things both live and move

In natural peace that is their own;

Only in our disordered life

Almost is she unknown.

She is not rest, nor sleep, nor death;

Order and motion ever stand

To carry out her firm behests

As guards at her right hand.

And something of her living force

Fashions the lips when Christians say

To Him Whose strength sustains the world,

"Give us Thy Peace, we pray!"

Source: [ Bessie Rayner Parkes. "Peace." Family Friend Poems, 2006. https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/peace-by-bessie-rayner-parkes ]

Come, walk with me into the forest's blessed abode,

To see the wondrous beauty the Earth has bestowed;

We'll bask in the surreal splendor that surrounds us,

And listen to nature composing the forest's grand opus,

As sounds of whispering trees and burbling streams,

Send our minds wandering into a poet's lovely dreams.

We'll walk where sunlight sets the forest's leaves aglow,

Weaving open paths to dapple golden light on all below;

Where trees shade us from summer heat and harsh rays,

Freeing our minds so we can see Mother Nature's ways,

Of creating nurturing sanctuaries for life dwelling there,

To shield its tender wards from storms too hard to bear.

Come sit beneath the glowing embers of an autumn tree,

Whose rich hues are a natural wonder many come to see,

While colorful leaves glide down in a whirling course,

Like embers breaking loose from their flaming source.

Glowing for a moment as if falling to their ending fate,

Instead, nourishing Earth for rebirth into a new state.

The wintering forest seems to be a still, desolate place.

Yet, under the snow and autumn leaves of a tree's base,

Beats the promising pulse of new life that patiently waits

For spring's warmth and rain to open wide nature's gates;

Roam with me under the trees standing strong over it all,

To watch them quietly sleep until nature's beckoning call.

Let us stroll in spring's forest where we will reap

The joy of Earth awakening its children from sleep,

And hear life's chorus and watch its offspring grow,

As waking trees renew their canopy over all below;

Come share with me the forest's spirit at rebirth,

So we too are reborn within this temple of Earth.

Every now and then let us answer the forest's call,

To come see life's beauty and the miracle of it all;

If we listen with our hearts as we walk among trees,

We may understand the message carried on a breeze,

For us to blend with the forest's spirit so it will beguile

Us into walking under its lovely trees for just a while.

Source [ Belinda Stotler. "The Forest's Blessed Abode." Family Friend Poems, Dec 2017. https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/the-forests-blessed-abode ]

We should have a land of sun,

Of gorgeous sun,

And a land of fragrant water

Where the twilight is a soft bandanna handkerchief

Of rose and gold,

And not this land

Where life is cold.

We should have a land of trees,

Of tall thick trees,

Bowed down with chattering parrots

Brilliant as the day,

And not this land where birds are gray.

Ah, we should have a land of joy,

Of love and joy and wine and song,

And not this land where joy is wrong.

Source: [ Langston Hughes. “Our Land”. Poets.org, 2021. https://poets.org/poem/our-land ]

The path was purple in the dusk.

I saw an owl, perched,

on a branch.

And when the owl stirred, a fine dust

fell from its wings. I was

silent then. And felt

the owl quaver. And at dawn, waking,

the path was green in the

May light.

Source: [ Arthur Sze. “The Owl”. Poets.org, 2021. https://poets.org/poem/owl ]

Most likely, you think we hated the elephant,

the golden toad, the thylacine and all variations

of whale harpooned or hacked into extinction.

It must seem like we sought to leave you nothing

but benzene, mercury, the stomachs

of seagulls rippled with jet fuel and plastic.

You probably doubt that we were capable of joy,

but I assure you we were.

We still had the night sky back then,

and like our ancestors, we admired

its illuminated doodles

of scorpion outlines and upside-down ladles.

Absolutely, there were some forests left!

Absolutely, we still had some lakes!

I’m saying, it wasn’t all lead paint and sulfur dioxide.

There were bees back then, and they pollinated

a euphoria of flowers so we might

contemplate the great mysteries and finally ask,

“Hey guys, what’s transcendence?”

And then all the bees were dead.

Source: [ Matthew Olzmann. “Letter to Someone Living Fifty Years from Now”. Poets.org, 2017. https://poets.org/poem/letter-someone-living-fifty-years-now ]

Remember the sky that you were born under,

know each of the star's stories.

Remember the moon, know who she is.

Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the

strongest point of time. Remember sundown

and the giving away to night.

Remember your birth, how your mother struggled

to give you form and breath. You are evidence of

her life, and her mother's, and hers.

Remember your father. He is your life, also.

Remember the earth whose skin you are:

red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth

brown earth, we are earth.

Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their

tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,

listen to them. They are alive poems.

Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the

origin of this universe.

Remember you are all people and all people

are you.

Remember you are this universe and this

universe is you.

Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.

Remember language comes from this.

Remember the dance language is, that life is.

Remember.

Source: [ Joy Harjo. “Remember”. Poets.org. https://poets.org/poem/remember-0 ]

^{Nearly one-third of the wild birds in the United States}

^{and Canada have vanished since 1970, a staggering}

^{loss that suggests the very fabric of North America’s}

^{ecosystem is unraveling.}

^{–The New York Times (September 19, 2019)}

As the world’s cities teem

with children—flooding

our concrete terrains with shouts

and signs—as the younglings balance

scribbled Earths above their heads,

stand in unseasonal rain

or blistering sun,

the birds quietly lessen

themselves among the grasslands.

No longer a chorus but a lonely,

indicating trill: Eastern meadowlark,

wood thrush, indigo bunting—

their voices ghosts in the

chemical landscape of crops.

Red-winged blackbirds veer

beyond the veil. Orioles

and swallows, the horned lark

and the jay. Color drains from

our common home so gradually,

we convince ourselves

it has always been gray.

Little hollow-boned dinosaurs,

you who survived the last extinction,

whose variety has obsessed

scientific minds, whose bodies

in the air compel our own bodies

to spread and yearn—

how we have failed you.

The grackles are right to scold us,

as they feast on our garbage

and genetically-modified corn.

Our children flock into the streets

with voices raised, their anger

a grim substitute

for song.

Source: [ Brittney Corrigan. “Vanishing”. Poets.org, 2021. https://poets.org/poem/vanishing ]

^{Lark of my house,}

^{keep laughing.}

^{—Miguel Hernández}

this little lark says hi

to the rain—she calls

river as she slaps

the air with both wings—

she doesn’t know pine

from ash or cedar

from linden—she greets

drizzle & downpour

alike—she doesn’t

know iceberg from melt—

can’t say sea level

rise—glacial retreat—

doesn’t know wildfire—

greenhouse gas—carbon

tax or emission—

does not legislate

a fear she can’t yet

feel—only knows cats

& birds & small dogs

& the sway of some

tall trees make her squeal

with delight—it shakes

her tiny body—

this thrill of the live

electric sudden—

the taste of wild blue-

berries on her tongue—

the ache of thorn-prick

from blackberry bush—

oh dear girl—look here—

there’s so much to save—

moments—lady bugs—

laughter—trillium—

blue jays—arias—

horizon’s pink hue—

we gather lifetimes

on one small petal—

the river’s our friend—

the world: an atom—

daughter: another

name for: hope—rain—change

begins when you hail

the sky sun & wind

the verdure inside

your heart’s four chambers

even garter snakes

and unnamed insects

in the underbrush

as you would a love

that rivers: hi—hi

Source: [ Dante Di Stefano. “‘My Eighteen-Month-Old Daughter Talks to the Rain as the Amazon Burns’. Poets.org, 2020. https://poets.org/poem/my-eighteen-month-old-daughter-talks-rain-amazon-burns ]

How swift, how far

the sea

carries a body from shore.

Empires fail, species are lost,

spotted frogs

and tufted puffins forsaken.

After eons of fauna and flora, hominids have stood

for mere years

baffled brains atop battered shoulders.

In a murky blanket of heavens

an icy planet

made of diamond spins.

Our sun winks like the star

it was

billions of years ago, without ambition.

We bury bodies in shallow dirt, heedless of lacking space

or how long

our makeshift planet will host us.

Source: [ Rise Denenberg. “Ice Would Suffice”. Poets.org, 2017. https://poets.org/poem/ice-would-suffice ]

Yes. I remember Adlestrop—

The name, because one afternoon

Of heat the express-train drew up there

Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came

On the bare platform. What I saw

Was Adlestrop—only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,

No whit less still and lonely fair

Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mistier,

Farther and farther, all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

Source: [ Edward Thomas. “Adlestrop”. Poetry Foundation. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53744/adlestrop ]