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Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost
Nature's First Green Is Gold,
Her Hardest Hue To Hold.
Her Early Leaf's A Flower;
But Only So An Hour.
Then Leaf Subsides To Leaf.
So Eden Sank To Grief,
So Dawn Goes Down To Day.
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Robin Becker's Hummingbird
I love the whir of the creature come
to visit the pink
flowers in the hanging basket as she does
most August mornings, hours away
from starvation to store
enough energy to survive overnight.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers BY EMILY DICKINSON
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
Nature by Henry David Thoreau
O Nature! I do not aspire
To be the highest in thy quire,—
To be a meteor in the sky,
Or comet that may range on high;
Only a zephyr that may blow
Among the reeds by the river low;
Give me thy most privy place
Where to run my airy race
Oh, Nature by Bruce Weigl
Today some things worked as they were meant to.
A big spring wind came up and blew down
from the verdant neighborhood trees,
millions of those little spinning things,
with seeds inside, and my heart woke up alive again too
Ode to a Nightingale
BY JOHN KEATS
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Love’s PhilosophyBY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
The fountains mingle with the river And the rivers with the ocean,The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion;Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divineIn one spirit meet and mingle. Why not I with thine?—
See the mountains kiss high heaven And the waves clasp one another;No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother;And the sunlight clasps the earth And the moonbeams kiss the sea:What is all this sweet work worth If thou kiss not me?
The fountains mingle with the river And the rivers with the ocean,The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion;Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divineIn one spirit meet and mingle. Why not I with thine?—
See the mountains kiss high heaven And the waves clasp one another;No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother;And the sunlight clasps the earth And the moonbeams kiss the sea:What is all this sweet work worth If thou kiss not me?
The World Is Too Much With UsBY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
The world is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—Little we see in Nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;The winds that will be howling at all hours,And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;For this, for everything, we are out of tune;It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather beA Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—Little we see in Nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;The winds that will be howling at all hours,And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;For this, for everything, we are out of tune;It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather beA Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
Lines Written in Early SpringBY WILLIAM WORDSWORTHI heard a thousand blended notes,While in a grove I sate reclined,In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughtsBring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature linkThe human soul that through me ran;And much it grieved my heart to thinkWhat man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;And ’tis my faith that every flowerEnjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,Their thoughts I cannot measure:—But the least motion which they madeIt seemed 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 lamentWhat man has made of man?
To her fair works did Nature linkThe human soul that through me ran;And much it grieved my heart to thinkWhat man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;And ’tis my faith that every flowerEnjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,Their thoughts I cannot measure:—But the least motion which they madeIt seemed 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 lamentWhat man has made of man?
To NightBY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
Swiftly walk o'er the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern cave,Where, all the long and lone daylight,Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,Which make thee terrible and dear,—Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,Star-inwrought!Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;Kiss her until she be wearied out,Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,Touching all with thine opiate wand—Come, long-sought!
When I arose and saw the dawn,I sighed for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turned to his rest,Lingering like an unloved guest.I sighed for thee.
Thy brother Death came, and cried,Wouldst thou me?Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmured like a noontide bee,Shall I nestle near thy side?Wouldst thou me?—And I replied,No, not thee!
Death will come when thou art dead,Soon, too soon—Sleep will come when thou art fled;Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, belovèd Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!
Swiftly walk o'er the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern cave,Where, all the long and lone daylight,Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,Which make thee terrible and dear,—Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,Star-inwrought!Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;Kiss her until she be wearied out,Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,Touching all with thine opiate wand—Come, long-sought!
When I arose and saw the dawn,I sighed for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turned to his rest,Lingering like an unloved guest.I sighed for thee.
Thy brother Death came, and cried,Wouldst thou me?Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmured like a noontide bee,Shall I nestle near thy side?Wouldst thou me?—And I replied,No, not thee!
Death will come when thou art dead,Soon, too soon—Sleep will come when thou art fled;Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, belovèd Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!
This Morning by Mary Oliver
This morning the redbirds’ eggshave hatched and already the chicksare chirping for food. They don’tknow where it’s coming from, theyjust keep shouting, “More! More!”As to anything else, they haven’thad a single thought. Their eyeshaven’t yet opened, they know nothingabout the sky that’s waiting. Orthe thousands, the millions of trees.They don’t even Know they have wings.And just like that, like a simpleneighborhood event, a miracle istaking place
This morning the redbirds’ eggshave hatched and already the chicksare chirping for food. They don’tknow where it’s coming from, theyjust keep shouting, “More! More!”As to anything else, they haven’thad a single thought. Their eyeshaven’t yet opened, they know nothingabout the sky that’s waiting. Orthe thousands, the millions of trees.They don’t even Know they have wings.And just like that, like a simpleneighborhood event, a miracle istaking place
Snowy Night by Mary Oliver
Last night, an owlin the blue darktossedan indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds intothe world, in which,a quarter of a mile away, I happenedto be standing.
I couldn't tellwhich one it was the barred or the great-hornedship of the air
it was that distant. But, anyway,aren't there momentsthat are better than knowing something,and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like starsfilling the dark treesthat one could easily imagineits reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I supposeif this were someone else¹s storythey would have insisted on knowingwhatever is knowable ¬ would have hurried
over the fieldsto name it ¬ the owl, I mean.But it¹s mine, this poem of the night,and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitterfalling through the air. I love this world,but not for its answers.And I wish good luck to the owl,
whatever its name and I wish great welcome to the snow,whatever its severe and comfortlessand beautiful meaning.
ENTERING THE KINGDOMby Mary Oliver
The crows see me. They stretch their glossy necks In the tallest branches Of green trees. I am Possibly dangerous, I am Entering the kingdom.
The dream of my life Is to lie down by a slow river And stare at the light in the trees– To learn something by being nothing A little while but the rich Lens of attention.
But the crows puff their feathers and cry Between me and the sun, And I should go now. They know me for what I am. No dreamer, No eater of leaves.
The crows see me. They stretch their glossy necks In the tallest branches Of green trees. I am Possibly dangerous, I am Entering the kingdom.
The dream of my life Is to lie down by a slow river And stare at the light in the trees– To learn something by being nothing A little while but the rich Lens of attention.
But the crows puff their feathers and cry Between me and the sun, And I should go now. They know me for what I am. No dreamer, No eater of leaves.
I Go Down to the Shoreby Mary Oliver
I go down to the shore in the morningand depending on the hour the wavesare rolling in or moving out,and I say, oh, I am miserable,what shall —what should I do? And the sea saysin its lovely voice:Excuse me, I have work to do.
I go down to the shore in the morningand depending on the hour the wavesare rolling in or moving out,and I say, oh, I am miserable,what shall —what should I do? And the sea saysin its lovely voice:Excuse me, I have work to do.
Earth Day by Jane Yolen
I am the EarthAnd the Earth is me.Each blade of grass,Each honey tree,Each bit of mud,And stick and stoneIs blood and muscle,Skin and bone.And just as INeed every bitOf me to makeMy body fit,So Earth needsGrass and stone and treeAnd things that grow hereNaturally.That’s why weCelebrate this day.That’s why acrossThe world we say:As long as life,As dear, as free,I am the EarthAnd the Earth is me.
I am the EarthAnd the Earth is me.Each blade of grass,Each honey tree,Each bit of mud,And stick and stoneIs blood and muscle,Skin and bone.And just as INeed every bitOf me to makeMy body fit,So Earth needsGrass and stone and treeAnd things that grow hereNaturally.That’s why weCelebrate this day.That’s why acrossThe world we say:As long as life,As dear, as free,I am the EarthAnd the Earth is me.
Sleeping in the Forest© 1978 by Mary Oliver
I thought the earth remembered me,she took me back so tenderly,arranging her dark skirts, her pocketsfull of lichens and seeds.I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,nothing between me and the white fire of the starsbut my thoughts, and they floated light as mothsamong the branches of the perfect trees.All night I heard the small kingdomsbreathing around me, the insects,and the birds who do their work in the darkness.All night I rose and fell, as if in water,grappling with a luminous doom. By morningI had vanished at least a dozen timesinto something better.from Sleeping In The Forest
I thought the earth remembered me,she took me back so tenderly,arranging her dark skirts, her pocketsfull of lichens and seeds.I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,nothing between me and the white fire of the starsbut my thoughts, and they floated light as mothsamong the branches of the perfect trees.All night I heard the small kingdomsbreathing around me, the insects,and the birds who do their work in the darkness.All night I rose and fell, as if in water,grappling with a luminous doom. By morningI had vanished at least a dozen timesinto something better.from Sleeping In The Forest
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