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Poems about Nature
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Woodcutter. Cut my shadow from me.
Who fares to find the sunset ere it fly, Turning to light and fire the further west,
Oh Mary this London's a wonderful sight
With people here workin' by day and by night
The ghost am I
Of winds that die
A thousand, thousand camp fires every night,
in ages gone, would twinkle to the dark
deep in liquid
turquoise slivers
O Nature! I do not aspire
To be the highest in thy choir, -
The Orchard-Pit
Piled deep below the screening apple-branch
Spring stars glitter in the freezing sky, Trees on watch are armoured with frost.
A Shepherd's Boy (he seeks no better name)
Led forth his flocks along the silver Thame,
WHAT does he plant who plants a tree?
He plants a friend of sun and sky;
Now I am slow and placid, fond of sun, Like a sleek beast, or a worn one,
I made a little song about the rose
And sang it for the rose to hear,
In summer, when day has fled, the plain covered with flowers
Pours out far away an intoxicating scent;
A fine and subtle spirit dwells
In every little flower,
To tangled paths where shy gazelles are straying,
And parrot-plumes outshine the dying day.
Naples Sea, you're amazing at night
With the Zephyr's scarf unrolled,
West of Dubbo the west begins
The land of leisure and hope and trust,
It doesn't breathe;
It doesn't smell;
Oh! the quiet river-crossing
Where we twain were wont to ride,
STRAY birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away.
Watch the white dawn gleam,
To the thunder of hidden guns.
When wintry winds are no more heard,
And joy's in every bosom,
Mind, I have a question for you — How is it you stay so young?
As the years pile up on my body, you too should grow old.
Ye elves! when spangled starlight gleams,
That flit beneath the ray,
How droops the troubled year
And now her tiny sunset stains the leaf.
The magpie's mood is never surly every morning, wakening early,
What have you got in your knapsack fair,
White moon, bright moon, pearling the air,
Well thou showest, gracious spring,
what fair works thy hand can bring;
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