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Poems about Nature
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Mad Patsy said, he said to me,
That every morning he could see
Let's look for birds! The tall iron branches
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
Like a flower, but not a flower
No one cares when it falls
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
The garden is frightful! It drips, it listens:
Is it in loneliness here,
of ice. Deceptively reserved and flat,
it lies "in grandeur and in mass"
I sit beside a little shadowy stream,
And try to tell in words my thoughts of you.
After the whey-faced anonymity
Of river-gums and scribbly-gums and bush,
A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
This is the first soft snow
That tiptoes up to your door
It's shot all day and poached all night.
We shall draw blank and lose the light,
Hark for'ard, hark for'ard, hark for'ard, to hills where October
Lingers awhile in his vesture resplendent yet sober,
The sun has wept rose in the shell of your ears,
The world has rolled white from your back,
A cicada shell;
it sang itself
Down the blue night the unending columns press
In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
These black bush-waters, heavy with crusted boughs
like plumes above dead captains, wake the mind....
Happy insect, what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Living in a wide landscape are the flowers -
Rosenberg I only repeat what you were saying -
Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
El mar como un vasto cristal azogado refleja la lámina de un cielo de zinc;
By the clear green river,
One afternoon in early autumn,
I am dotted silver threads dropped from heaven
By the gods. Nature then takes me, to adorn
To come at tulip time how wise!
Perhaps you will not now regret
There is an insect that people avoid
(Whence is derived the verb 'to flee').
Then spoke the Spirit of the Earth,
Her gentle voice like a soft water's song--
Eternities before the first-born day,
Or ere the first sun fledged his wings of flame,
I dreamt of autumn in the window's twilight,
And you, a tipsy jesters' throng amidst. '
Rambling along the marshes, On the bank of the Assabet,
A frost came in the night and stole my world
And left this changeling for it - a precocious
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