|
THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE - VOLUME 3
THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE - VOLUME 3 BURTON EGBERT STEVENSON PART III
POEMS OF NATURE
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 be
A 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 wreathed horn.
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
MOTHER NATURE
THE BOOK OF THE WORLD
Of this fair volume which we World do name
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care
Of him who it corrects and did it frame
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare;
Find out his power which wildest powers doth tame
His providence extending everywhere
His justice which proud rebels doth not spare
In every page no period of the same.
But silly we like foolish children rest
Well pleased with colored vellum leaves of gold
Fair dangling ribbons leaving what is best
On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught
It is some picture on the margin wrought.
William Drummond [1585-1649]
NATURE
The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by
Because my feet find measure with its call;
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh
For I am known to them both great and small.
The flower that on the lonely hillside grows
Expects me there when spring its bloom has given;
And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows
And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven;
For he who with his Maker walks aright
Shall be their lord as Adam was before;
His ear shall catch each sound with new delight
Each object wear the dress that then it wore;
And he as when erect in soul he stood
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.
Jones Very [1813-1880]
COMPENSATION
In that new world toward which our feet are set
Shall we find aught to make our hearts forget
Earth's homely joys and her bright hours of bliss?
Has heaven a spell divine enough for this?
For who the pleasure of the spring shall tell
When on the leafless stalk the brown buds swell
When the grass brightens and the days grow long
And little birds break out in rippling song?
O sweet the dropping eve the blush of morn
The starlit sky the rustling fields of corn
The soft airs blowing from the freshening seas
The sunflecked shadow of the stately trees
The mellow thunder and the lulling rain
The warm delicious happy summer rain
When the grass brightens and the days grow long
And little birds break out in rippling song!
O beauty manifold from morn till night
Dawn's flush noon's blaze and sunset's tender light!
O fair familiar features changes sweet
Of her revolving seasons storm and sleet
And golden calm as slow she wheels through space
From snow to roses - and how dear her face
When the grass brightens when the days grow long
And little birds break out in rippling song!
O happy earth! O home so well beloved!
What recompense have we from thee removed?
One hope we have that overtops the whole -
The hope of finding every vanished soul
We love and long for daily and for this
Gladly we turn from thee and all thy bliss
Even at thy loveliest when the days are long
And little birds break out in rippling song.
Celia Thaxter [1835-1894]
THE LAST HOUR
O joys of love and joys of fame
It is not you I shall regret;
I sadden lest I should forget
The beauty woven in earth's name:
The shout and battle of the gale
The stillness of the sun-rising
The sound of some deep hidden spring
The glad sob of the filling sail
The first green ripple of the wheat
The rain-song of the lifted leaves
The waking birds beneath the eaves
The voices of the summer heat.
Ethel Clifford [18 -
NATURE
O Nature! I do not aspire
To be the highest in thy choir -
To be a meteor in thy 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.
In some withdrawn unpublic mead
Let me sigh upon a reed
Or in the woods with leafy din
Whisper the still evening in:
Some still work give me to do -
Only - be it near to you!
For I'd rather be thy child
And pupil in the forest wild
Than be the king of men elsewhere
And most sovereign slave of care;
To have one moment of thy dawn
Than share the city's year forlorn.
Henry David Thoreau [1817-1862]
SONG OF NATURE
Mine are the night and morning
The pits of air the gull of space
The sportive sun the gibbous moon
The innumerable days.
I hide in the solar glory
I am dumb in the pealing song
I rest on the pitch of the torrent
In slumber I am strong.
No numbers have counted my tallies
No tribes my house can fill
I sit by the shining Fount of Life
And pour the deluge still;
And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers
My wreath shall nothing miss.
...
|
