Nature the gentlest mother is
Nature the gentlest mother is,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest of the waywardest.
Her admonition mild
In forest and the hill
By traveller be heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel
Or too impetuous bird.
How fair her conversation
A summer afternoon,
Her household her assembly;
And when the sun go down,
Her voice among the aisles
Incite the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.
When all the children sleep,
She turns as long away
As will suffice tolight her lamps,
Then bending from the sky
With infinite affection
An infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Related quotes
Nature, the gentlest mother,
Nature, the gentlest mother,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest or the waywardest,
Her admonition mild
In forest and the hill
By traveller is heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel
Or too impetuous bird.
How fair her conversation,
A summer afternoon,--
Her household, her assembly;
And when the sun goes down
Her voice among the aisles
Incites the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.
When all the children sleep
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light her lamps;
Then, bending from the sky
With infinite affection
And infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Nature is what we see—
"Nature" is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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A Child In A Man
Testosterone muscled men have,
The Top and the center, the caves,
Something is there to do the basic,
Nothing is there to think angelic,
Given the work, they do sincerely,
As the kids in the play school aviary,
The children long to be praised,
The children need to be reminded,
The children want to be around,
The loving hearts that care,
In each and every man, there is a child,
That long for the love of a mother,
When the women identify that child,
They have the responsible man in the household,
When the women take good care of that child,
They have the obedient handyman in the household.
When the women try to be funny with that child
The child will be the runaway kid,
Likes to play truant, shows the authority,
Displays tantrums and becomes juvenile delinquent.
Identify and rear that child efficiently..
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Does silence suffice...
Does silence suffice when you care for someone
But friendship is the most they can give
Does silence suffice when friendship is offered
But it’s just not enough
Does silence suffice when your hearts been broken
But you can’t say goodbye
Does silence suffice when he claims to really care
But is too busy to say Happy Birthday
Does silence suffice when you think about him again and again
But your pride and your pain tells you
That... silence does suffice
poem by Anna Kelly
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Mother Earth
The sun slowly sinks below her golden borders
as darkness falls over all life form.
Tears of compassion spring up as she watches over her children: the
Squirrels and birds and the tiniest insects; her helpful angleworms
and worthless plants all lay sleeping on her tummy.
She reaches up to the sky, closes the golden gate, and
turns off the light.
Then, In infinite love and care, she
places her finger on her lips, and
orders silence everywhere.
She lay awake pondering
on the morrow.
poem by Almedia Knight Oliver
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The Conversation of Prayer
The conversation of prayers about to be said
By the child going to bed and the man on the stairs
Who climbs to his dying love in her high room,
The one not caring to whom in his sleep he will move
And the other full of tears that she will be dead,
Turns in the dark on the sound they know will arise
Into the answering skies from the green ground,
From the man on the stairs and the child by his bed.
The sound about to be said in the two prayers
For the sleep in a safe land and the love who dies
Will be the same grief flying. Whom shall they calm?
Shall the child sleep unharmed or the man be crying?
The conversation of prayers about to be said
Turns on the quick and the dead, and the man on the stair
To-night shall find no dying but alive and warm
In the fire of his care his love in the high room.
And the child not caring to whom he climbs his prayer
Shall drown in a grief as deep as his made grave,
And mark the dark eyed wave, through the eyes of sleep,
Dragging him up the stairs to one who lies dead.
poem by Dylan Thomas
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Amazon
This song appears on four albums, and was first released on the different directions album, and has also been released on the gift you are and the john denver collection - sunshine on my shoulde
Ums. a live version appears on the wildlife concert album.
There is a river that runs from the mountains
That one river is all rivers
All rivers are that one
There is a tree that stands in the forest
That one tree is all forests
All trees are that one
There is a flower that blooms in the desert
That one blossom is all flowers
All flowers are that one
There is a bird that sings in the jungle
That one song is all music
All songs are that one
It is the song of life
It is the flower of faith
It is the tree of temptation
It is the river of no regret
There is a child that cries in the ghetto
That one child is all children
All children are that one
There is a vision that shines in the darkness
That one vision is all of our dreams
It is a vision of heaven
It is a child of promise
It is the song of life
It is the river of no regret
Let this be a voice for the mountains
Let this be a voice for the river
Let this be a voice for the forest
Let this be a voice for the flowers
Let this be a voice for the ocean
Let this be a voice for the desert
Let this be a voice for the children
Let this be a voice for the dreamers
Let this be a voice of no regret
Words and music by john denver
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Nurse
Such innocent companionship
Is hers, whether she wake or sleep,
'Tis scarcely strange her face should wear
The young child's grave and innocent air.
All the night long she hath by her
The quiet breathing, the soft stir,
Nor knows how in that tender place
The children's angels veil the face.
She wakes at dawn with bird and child
To earth new-washed and reconciled,
The hour of silence and of dew,
When God hath made His world anew.
She sleeps at eve, about the hour
Of bedtime for the bird and flower,
When daisies, evening primroses,
Know that the hour of closing is.
Her daylight thoughts are all on toys
And games for darling girls and boys,
Lest they should fret, lest they should weep,
Strayed from their heavenly fellowship.
She is as pretty and as brown
As the wood's children far from town,
As bright-eyed, glancing, shy of men,
As any squirrel, any wren.
Tender she is to beast and bird,
As in her breast some memory stirred
Of days when those were kin of hers
Who go in feathers and in furs.
A child, yet is the children's law,
And rules by love and rules by awe.
And, stern at times, is kind withal
As a girl-baby with her doll.
Outside the nursery door there lies
The world with all its griefs and sighs,
Its needs, its sins, its stains of sense:
Within is only innocence.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The mother and the artist
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of wonderfully emollient freshness; every
unfurling instant of impregnably magnificent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of spellbindingly undefeated innocence; every
unfurling instant of symbiotically pristine existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of timelessly unconquerable truth; every unfurling
instant of bounteously magnanimous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unfathomably unfettered creativity; every
unfurling instant of timelessly burgeoning existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of royally triumphant resplendence; every
unfurling instant of unconquerably majestic existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of eternally exhilarating vivaciousness; every
unfurling instant of redolently insuperable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbelievably ameliorating optimism; every
unfurling instant of marvelously benign existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of brilliantly liberated camaraderie; every
unfurling instant of iridescently inscrutable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unshakably virgin righteousness; every
unfurling instant of beautifully untainted existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of uninhibitedly heavenly frolic; every unfurling
instant of tantalizingly sensuous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of compassionately humanitarian friendship; every
unfurling instant of magically mitigating existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of miraculously everlasting freshness; every
unfurling instant of invincibly coalescing existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of pricelessly ubiquitous oneness; every unfurling
instant of robustly blessed existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbreakably Omnipotent desire; every unfurling
instant of victoriously effulgent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unceasingly reinvigorating fantasy; every
unfurling minute of poignantly charismatic existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of insurmountably intrepid enchantment; every
unfurling minute of rhapsodically unhindered existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of Omnisciently tranquil serenity; every unfurling
instant of endlessly bestowing existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of perpetually fragrant breath; every unfurling
instant of Omnipresently benevolent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of Immortally ardent love; every unfurling instant
of limitlessly fructifying existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of fantastically alleviating poetry; every
unfurling instant of boundlessly splendid existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of fabulously effervescent tanginess; every
unfurling instant of spiritually uplifting existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unlimitedly enlightening Sunshine; every
unfurling instant of infallibly luminescent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of immaculately godly melody; every unfurling
instant of amiably melanging existence,
Because. And Only Because. A Mother is; has and shall for times immemorial
remain the Greatest Sculptor of every organism on this astoundingly
multiplying Universe; A Mother is the Greatest Artist….
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Dulcis Memoria
Long, long ago I heard a little song,
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
So lowly, slowly wound the tune along,
That far into my heart it found the way:
A melody consoling and endearing;
And still, in silent hours, I'm often hearing
The small, sweet song that does not die away.
Long, long ago I saw a little flower,--
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
So fair of face and fragrant for an hour,
That something dear to me it seemed to say:
A thought of joy that blossomed into being
Without a word; and now I'm often seeing
The friendly flower that does not fade away.
Long, long ago we had a little child,--
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
Into his mother's eyes and mine he smiled
Unconscious love; warm in our arms he lay.
An angel called! Dear heart, we could not hold him;
Yet secretly your arms and mine infold him--
Our little child who does not go away.
Long, long ago? Ah, memory, make it clear--
(It was not long ago, but yesterday,)
So little and so helpless and so dear
Let not the song be lost, the flower decay!
His voice, his waking eyes, his gentle sleeping:
The smallest things are safest in thy keeping.
Sweet memory, keep our child with us always.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Gibberish
Many a flower have I seen blossom,
Many a bird for me will sing.
Never heard I so sweet a singer,
Never saw I so fair a thing.
She is a bird, a bird that blossoms,
She is a flower, a flower that sings;
And I a flower when I behold her,
And when I hear her, I have wings.
poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
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Wild Flowers Of Australia
Oh say not that no perfume dwells;
The wilding flowers among,
Say not that in the forest dells
Is heard no voice of song.
The air is laden with the scent
Borne from the clustering flower,
With which the wattle is besprent;
Like Danae’s golden shower.
And silv’ry wattles bending low,
Sweet incense scatter far—
When night-winds kiss the pensile bough,
Beneath the evening star.
And there are flowers of varying dye;
Now white, now blushing red,
Their beauteous blossoms charm the eye,
And fragrant odours shed.
There’s perfume breath’d from Austral flowers,—
And melody is there
Not such as in far Albion’s bowers
Falls on th’ accustom’d ear.
But thrilling snatches of wild song,
Pour’d forth from lonely glen—
Where winds the hidden creek along
Far from the haunts of men.
And hoarser notes in wild woods heard
Sound like strange harmonies,
As flashes past the bright-winged bird
Gleaming in azure skies.
Then say not that no perfume dwells,
The wilding flowers among;
Say not that in the forest dells
Is heard no voice of song!
poem by Caroline Carleton
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Silence
Silence in the language
Is the absence of speech
Silence in the conversation
Can be so remarkable and rich.
Silence is an atmosphere you make
And it's the situation you break.
Sometimes it tells you more
Than thousand words told before.
Silence is a feeling
Which is very intensive
Poorly created
It can be very offensive.
Silence can be so different
It has a lot of meanings
It's an expression of yourself
It shows your feelings.
There is a silence
That brings you peace
And you feel yourself
Being at your ease.
There is a silence of mystery
Like being in a dark wood.
There is a silence of happiness
When you are loved and understood.
There is a silence that frightens
There is a silence of anniversary dates
This silence reminds you
Of those lost fates.
There is a silence in music
When you listen to it and dream
But...suddenly...it stops.
Then...the sounds come to their extreme.
The prayer in silence
Is your inner world
When you dream in silence
You are just not heard.
Silence is golden
Or so I've heard
But it sometimes hurts more
Than a single told word.
Silence is golden
Or so goes a lie.
This silence of fraud
Do not need a reply.
Silence when you are in love
You do not need words.
Silence when you are fooled
You don't know what to say afterwards.
But...the best moment of silence
When you take my hand
I know you do not pretend
You just look at my eyes and I realize:
It's love, it's happiness.
Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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The Voice
One feather is a bird,
I claim; one tree, a wood;
In her low voice I heard
More than a mortal should;
And so I stood apart,
Hidden in my own heart.
And yet I roamed out where
Those notes went, like the bird,
Whose thin song hung in air,
Diminished, yet still heard:
I lived with open sound,
Aloft, and on the ground.
That ghost was my own choice,
The shy cerulean bird;
It sang with her true voice,
And it was I who heard
A slight voice reply;
I heard; and only I.
Desire exults the ear:
Bird, girl, and ghostly tree,
The earth, the solid air--
Their slow song sang in me;
The long noon pulsed away,
Like any summer day.
poem by Theodore Roethke
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The Quiet Rural Church
It was a humble church, with arches low,
The church we entered there,
Where many a weary soul since long ago
Had past with plaint or prayer.
Mournful and still it was at day's decline,
The day we entered there;
As in a loveless heart, at the lone shrine,
The fires extinguished were.
Scarcely was heard to float some gentlest sound,
Scarcely some low breathed word,
As in a forest fallen asleep, is found
Just one belated bird.
poem by Victor Hugo
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The Boy And The Skylark
A FABLE.
'A wicked action fear to do,
When you are by yourself; for though
You think you can conceal it,
A little bird that's in the air
The hidden trespass shall declare,
And openly reveal it.'
Richard this saying oft had heard,
Until the sight of any bird
Would set his heart a-quaking;
He saw a host of wingëd spies
For ever o'er him in the skies,
Note of his actions taking.
This pious precept, while it stood
In his remembrance, kept him good
When nobody was by him;
For though no human eye was near,
Yet Richard still did wisely fear
The little bird should spy him.
But best resolves will sometimes sleep;
Poor frailty will not always keep
From that which is forbidden;
And Richard, one day, left alone,
Laid hands on something not his own,
And hoped the theft was hidden.
His conscience slept a day or two,
As it is very apt to do
When we with pains suppress it:
And though at times a slight remorse
Would raise a pang, it had not force
To make him yet confess it.
When on a day, as he abroad
Walked by his mother, in their road
He heard a skylark singing;
Smit with the sound, a flood of tears
Proclaimed the superstitious fears
His inmost bosom wringing.
His mother, wondering, saw him cry,
And fondly asked the reason why;
Then Richard made confession,
And said, he feared the little bird
He singing in the air had heard
Was telling his transgression.
The words which Richard spoke below,
As sounds by nature upwards go,
Were to the skylark carried;
The airy traveller with surprise
To hear his sayings, in the skies
On his mid journey tarried.
His anger then the bird exprest:
'Sure, since the day I left the nest,
I ne'er heard folly uttered
So fit to move a skylark's mirth,
As what this little son of earth
Hath in his grossness muttered.
'Dull fool! to think we sons of air
On man's low actions waste a care,
His virtues or his vices;
Or soaring on the summer gales,
That we should stoop to carry tales
Of him or his devices!
'Our songs are all of the delights
We find in our wild airy flights,
And heavenly exaltation;
The earth you mortals have at heart
Is all too gross to have a part
In skylark's conversation.
'Unless it be in what green field
Or meadow we our nest may build,
Midst flowering broom, or heather;
From whence our new-fledged offspring may
With least obstruction wing their way
Up to the walks of ether.
'Mistaken fool! man needs not us
His secret merits to discuss,
Or spy out his transgression;
When once he feels his conscience stirred,
That voice within him is the bird
That moves him to confession.'
poem by Charles Lamb
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When the Forest Turns Gold
During the nights,
The forest turns gold.
Animals are knights,
And the children are told,
That once they set foot on the floor,
They will be pull.
When the forest turns gold.
This is not lore.
Climbers will be cold,
And the children’s heart would tore.
The children will be told,
That they will never reach the shore,
Until an eclipse peers,
Then the children would be unfold.
When the forest turns gold.
Years after years,
Climbers will be old.
The children will be swamps with fears,
That they will never be old,
Because of the magic that the forest hold.
The climbers hold the children tight.
They would always be hold,
When the forest turns gold.
Sonnet LX. To An Amiable Girl
MIRANDA! mark where shrinking from the gale,
Its silken leaves yet moist with early dew,
That fair faint flower, the Lily of the vale
Droops its meek head, and looks, methinks, like you!
Wrapp'd in a shadowy veil of tender green,
Its snowy bells a soft perfume dispense,
And bending as reluctant to be seen,
In simple loveliness it sooths the sense.
With bosom bared to meet the garish day,
The glaring Tulip, gaudy, undismay'd,
Offends the eye of taste; that turns away
To seek the Lily in her fragrant shade.
With such unconscious beauty, pensive, mild,
Miranda charms--Nature's soft modest child.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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By The Fireside : Resignation
There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair!
The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead,--the child of our affection,--
But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild
In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,--
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Alaskan Balladry
Krinken was a little child,-
It was summer when he smiled.
Oft the hoary sea and grim
Stretched its white arms out to him,
Calling, 'Sun-child, come to me;
Let me warm my heart with thee!'
But the child heard not the sea,
Calling, yearning evermore
For the summer on the shore.
Krinken on the beach one day
Saw a maiden Nis at play;
On the pebbly beach she played
In the summer Krinken made.
Fair, and very fair, was she,
Just a little child was he.
'Krinken,' said the maiden Nis,
'Let me have a little kiss,
Just a kiss, and go with me
To the summer-lands that be
Down within the silver sea.'
Krinken was a little child-
By the maiden Nis beguiled,
Hand in hand with her went he,
And 'twas summer in the sea.
And the hoary sea and grim
To its bosom folded him-
Clasped and kissed the little form,
And the ocean's heart was warm.
Now the sea calls out no more;
It is winter on the shore,-
Winter where that little child
Made sweet summer when he smiled;
Though 'tis summer on the sea
Where with maiden Nis went he,-
Summer, summer evermore,-
It is winter on the shore,
Winter, winter evermore.
Of the summer on the deep
Come sweet visions in my sleep:
His
fair face lifts from the sea,
His
dear voice calls out to me,-
These my dreams of summer be.
Krinken was a little child,
By the maiden Nis beguiled;
Oft the hoary sea and grim
Reached its longing arms to him,
Crying, 'Sun-child, come to me;
Let me warm my heart with thee!'
But the sea calls out no more;
It is winter on the shore,-
Winter, cold and dark and wild;
Krinken was a little child,-
It was summer when he smiled;
Down he went into the sea,
And the winter bides with me.
Just a little child was he.
poem by Eugene Field
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