Departing Summer
When auburn Autumn mounts the stage,
And Summer fails her charms to yield,
Bleak nature turns another page,
To light the glories of the field.
At once the vale declines to bloom,
The forest smiles no longer gay;
Gardens are left without perfume,
The rose and lilly pine away.
The orchard bows her fruitless head,
As one divested of her store;
Or like a queen whose train has fled,
And left her sad to smile no more.
That bird which breath'd her vernal song,
And hopp'd along the flow'ry spray,
Now silent holds her warbling tongue,
Which dulcifies the feast of May.
But let each bitter have its sweet,
No change of nature is in vain;
'Tis just alternate cold and heat,
For time is pleasure mix'd with pain.
poem by George Moses Horton
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On Spring
Hail, thou auspicious vernal dawn!
Ye birds, proclaim the winter's gone,
Ye warbling minstrels sing;
Pour forth your tribute as ye rise,
And thus salute the fragrant skies
The pleasing smiles of Spring.
Coo sweetly, oh thou harmless Dove,
And bid thy mate no longer rove,
In cold, hybernal vales;
Let music rise from every tongue,
Whilst winter flies before the song,
Which floats on gentle gales.
Ye frozen streams dissolve and flow
Along the valley, sweet and slow;
Divested fields be gay:
Ye drooping forests bloom on high,
And raise your branches to the sky,
And thus your charms display.
Thou world of heat--thou vital source,
The torpid insects feel thy force,
Which all with life supplies;
Gardens and orchards richly bloom,
And send a gale of sweet perfume,
To invite them as they rise.
Near where the crystal waters glide,
The male of birds escorts his bride,
And twitters on the spray;
He mounts upon his active wing,
To hail the bounty of the Spring,
The lavish pomp of May.
Inspiring month of youthful Love,
How oft we in the peaceful grove,
Survey the flowery plume;
Or sit beneath the sylvan shade,
Where branches wave above the head,
And smile on every bloom.
Exalted month, when thou art gone,
May Virtue then begin the dawn
Of an eternal Spring?
May raptures kindle on my tongue,
And start a new, eternal song,
Which ne'er shall cease to ring!
poem by George Moses Horton
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A Girl's Autumn Reverie
We plucked a red rose, you and I
All in the summer weather;
Sweet its perfume and rare its bloom,
Enjoyed by us together.
The rose is dead, the summer fled,
And bleak winds are complaining;
We dwell apart, but in each heart
We find the thorn remaining.
We sipped a sweet wine, you and I,
All in the summer weather.
The beaded draught we lightly quaffed,
And filled the glass together.
Together we watched its rosy glow,
And saw its bubbles glitter;
Apart, alone, we only know
The lees are very bitter.
We walked in sunshine, you and I,
All in the summer weather.
The very night seemed noonday bright.
When we two were together.
I wonder why with our good-by
O'er hill and vale and meadow
There fell such shade, our paths seemed laid
Forevermore in shadow.
We dreamed a sweet dream, you and I,
All in the summer weather,
Where rose and wine and warm sunshine
Were mingled in together.
We dreamed that June was with us yet,
We woke to find December.
We dreamed that we two could forget,
We woke but to remember.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Prosperity
Come, thou queen of every creature,
Nature calls thee to her arms ;
Love sits gay on every feature,
Teeming with a thousand charms.
Meet me mid the wreathing bowers,
Greet me in the citron grove,
Where I saw the belle of flowers
Dealing with the blooms of love.
Hark! the lowly dove of Sharon,
Bids thee rise and come away,
From a vale both dry and barren,
Come to one where life is gay.
Come, thou queen of all the forest,
Fair Feronia, mountain glee,
Lovelier than the garden florist,
Or the goddess of the bee.
Come, Sterculus, and with pleasure,
Fertilize the teeming field;
From thy straw, dissolved at leisure,
Bid the lea her bounty yield.
Come, thou queen of every creature,
Nature calls thee to her arms;
Love sits gay on every feature,
Teeming with a thousand charms.
poem by George Moses Horton
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Autumn Rain
From out the dying forest,
a somber melody is echoed.
And the silent winds of time turn the page,
a dreary chapter follows.
It's a reminder of one soul's failure
to capture the sun of yesterday.
An ill and unwanted visitor,
foreshadowing the autumn rain.
Soon all that lives so lusciously green,
in nature, begins to turn.
And the familiar russet scene of change
will tragically confirm;
Such horrid thoughts and feelings still remain,
as downward falls the dreadful autumn rain.
Downfalls autumn rain from shallow skies,
to flood the heart with sorrow,
and the eyes without disguise.
To drown the soul who smiles a smile in vain.
Downfall autumn rain.
Let the withering wilt,
and all that is serene,
fade.
To The Painted Columbine
Bright image of the early years
When glowed my cheek as red as thou,
And life's dark throng of cares and fears
Were swift-winged shadows o'er my sunny brow!
Thou blushest from the painter's page,
Robed in the mimic tints of art;
But Nature's hand in youth's green age
With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart.
The morning's blush, she made it thine,
The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee,
And in thy look, my Columbine!
Each fond-remembered spot she bade me see.
I see the hill's far-gazing head,
Where gay thou noddest in the gale;
I hear light-bounding footsteps tread
The grassy path that winds along the vale.
I hear the voice of woodland song
Break from each bush and well-known tree,
And on light pinions borne along,
Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee.
O'er the dark rock the dashing brook,
With look of anger, leaps again,
And, hastening to each flowery nook,
Its distant voice is heard far down the glen.
Fair child of art! thy charms decay,
Touched by the withered hand of Time;
And hushed the music of that day,
When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime;
But on my heart thy cheek of bloom
Shall live when Nature's smile has fled;
And, rich with memory's sweet perfume,
Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed.
There shalt thou live and wake the glee
That echoed on thy native hill;
And when, loved flower! I think of thee,
My infant feet will seem to seek thee still.
poem by Jones Very
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The Last Rose Of The Fall
Her pink petals strewn upon the grass beside her mother tree
In full bloom a thing of Nature so beautiful to see
Where the gleaners of Nature's decay grubs, slugs and insects crawl
Last week she looked so beautiful the last rose of the Fall.
So bare and thorny looking without her leaves and flowers
The rose tree looks forlorn in the cool Autumn showers
Next Summer again pink roses she will wear
The rose tree in bloom has a beauty that's rare.
The beauty of Nature is seen Worldwide
In town parks and gardens and in the countryside
And Nature herself she lives on every shore
The one destined to live forever more.
For the gleaners of Nature who live on decay
The beautiful rose petals on the grass lay
But the rose whose life span can be measured in hours
Her fate it is not any different to ours.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Swan - Vain Pleasures
The Swan which boasted mid the tide,
Whose nest was guarded by the wave,
Floated for pleasure till she died,
And sunk beneath the flood to lave.
The bird of fashion drops her wing,
The rose-bush now declines to bloom;
The gentle breezes of the spring
No longer waft a sweet perfume.
Fair beauty with those lovely eyes,
Withers along her vital stream;
Proud fortune leaves her throne, and flies
From pleasure, as a flattering dream.
The eagle of exalted fame,
Which spreads his pinions far to sail,
Struggled to fan his dying flame,
Till pleasure pall'd in every gale.
And gaudy mammon, sordid gain,
Whose plume has faded, once so gay,
Languishes mid her flowery train,
Whilst pleasure flies like fumes away.
Vain pleasures, O how short to last!
Like leaves which quick to ashes burn;
Which kindle from the slightest blast,
And slight to nothing hence return.
poem by George Moses Horton
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Oh Sing Me A Song Of Nature
Oh sing me of Nature's great beauty of sunlight on flowering gum trees
And the sweet scents of Nature's own perfume that wafts in the freshening breeze
And sing of the wildborn creatures the call of the boobook owl at night
And the wild cry of the brushtail possum on the blackwood tree in the moonlight,
'Tis only of love that you sing of the bloke who yearns for the love of his life
The one who left him heavy hearted for to become another man's wife
I do grow tired of listening to love songs how come few of Nature do sing
The cold starry nights of the Winter the beautiful birdsong of Spring,
The warm balmy days of the Summer the cool breezy evenings of the Fall
Oh sing me a song of our Earth Mother since she is the greatest of all,
The beauty of Nature's great ocean the beach on a warm Summer's day
The coolness of a coastal evening and the freshness of the ocean spray,
Oh do sing me a song of Nature and brighten my day with good cheer
I've grown tired of meaningless love songs such stuff i do not wish to hear.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Truth Smiles In Child!
What an eternal pair they are,
God and Nature, positive and negative,
God revolving freely around nature,
Smiles at Nature,
And Nature smiles at God,
Smile makes one beautiful and they fell in love of beauty in one another!
Just like parents smile AT the kid,
Nature says to God,
'See, This child is your Creation,
you are its father,
take care of it '
God smiles and says, 'Its your child,
take care of this,
And this is your child '
Child smiles innocently at both,
Nature Smile at child and says,
I am your mother, He is your father,
When child smiles at father,
father's heart too jumps and smiles,
Father sees its beloved Nature,
And Nature sees her Beloved God in the smile of the child!
In the child both smile together, seeing at one another!
Matter smiles at energy and energy smiles at matter,
and in the child both smile together,
But in their love and smile,
Truth smiles,
eyes of both God, Nature shine at the smile of the Child,
Never both able to see the silent smile of Truth,
It says within child, it's soliliquoy goes unheard,
' I am that,
Smiled in you,
I am the creator of both,
But God and Nature Never able to see me,
Only seeing me as their child,
I smile At them,
that I kept my identity,
Hidden safe in You '
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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The Daisy - On Finding one in Bloom on Christmas-day
There is a flower, a little flower
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine;
Race after race their honors yield,
They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the Sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.
The purple heath and golden broom
On moory mountains catch the gale;
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honor of the dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem;
The wild bee murmurs on its breast;
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem
Light o'er the skylark's nest.
'Tis Flora's page, - in every place,
In every season, fresh and fair;
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The Rose has but a summer reign;
The Daisy never dies!
poem by James Montgomery
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Nature Baby
Nature Baby as free as a bird
Nature Baby not speaking a word
Nature Baby living day by day
Nature Baby always floating away. Feeling the soil around my feet
The sun rays beating down with heat
My being feeling like I'm not physically here
And when I look around I'm so much more aware. The energy keeps coming my way
As I buzz through life and play
Nature Baby being free
Nature Baby that is me
That is what is meant to be. Nature Baby gave the garden lots of love and energy
And now the gardens have surrounded me with beauty
And the heavenly scents from each flower in bloom
As we share the space within this big room. Nature Baby as free as a bird
Nature Baby not speaking a word.
Spring.
'Let the light rain on her, the sweet Spring, till
She teems with greenery in the warm air,
Flower-hued, and vocal with the tender joy
Of bleating lambs and young birds on the wing.'
Thus on the cold hill doth the herdsman pray
Beneath his frozen star; the milkmaid, too,
As her raw hands take up the milking-pail,
And the wind freezes in the red dawn near: —
'Come, Spring, earth's sap, and mount in me until
I bloom, a rose of love: smile in mine eyes
Till my love from his wintry hill shall see
The star of youth, and leap into my arms!
O Spring, sweet Spring! but hear my prayer, and I
Shall build thee bowers of roses on the hill,
And all the summer there with bird and bee
Shall joy feast in the beauty of our love!'
Thus do they chant the wintry time away
In hill and vale, the two who look to when
The warmth of beauty takes life's wonder on,
And the rose of the flesh shall bloom for them.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Come September
Come September,
when two of nature's seasons live as one,
where days of summer shed their final afterglow
'ere falling gently 'neath an autumn's rising sun,
and every hanging bough and turning leaf will know ~
the green meets gold,
within the murmurings and turnings of trees
that flutter their branches in a restless dance
of impending change. Their limbs akimbo, as arms,
waving goodbye...watching autumn advance,
yet, summer pleads,
to share the days of changeling September
and clings to every breath of autumn's eve ~
spreading warmth and sultry breeze with waning movement
while knowing time grows short, and it must leave,
as beauty stays,
though, not for long, for gold becomes gold
after summer's sung her final song,
and lustrous are the days and nights made bold
with autumn's breath blowing chilly and cold ~
O'grieve September,
though, not for long, as gold turns into winter white,
then into green with 'springing' guile,
and summer's sight brings back September,
to share a season's remembered smile.
poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
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Autumn
Alas! with swift and silent pace,
Impatient time rolls on the year;
The Seasons change, and Nature's face
Now sweetly smiles, now frowns severe.
'Twas Spring, 'twas Summer, all was gay,
Now Autumn bends a cloudy brow;
The flowers of Spring are swept away,
And Summer fruits desert the bough.
The verdant leaves that play'd on high,
And wanton'd on the western breeze,
Now trod in dust neglected lie,
As Boreas strips the bending trees.
The fields that waved with golden grain,
As russet heaths are wild and bare;
Not moist with dew, but drench'd in rain,
Nor health nor pleasure wanders there.
No more, while through the midnight shade
Beneath the moon's pale orb I stray,
Soft pleasing woes my heart invade,
As Progne pours the melting lay.
From this capricious clime she soars,
O! would some god but wings supply!
To where each morn the Spring restores,
Companion of her flight I'd try.
Vain wish! me fate compels to bear
The downward season's iron reign,
Compels to breathe the polluted air,
And shiver on a blasted plain.
What bliss to life can Autumn yield,
If glooms, and showers,and storms prevail;
And Ceres flies the naked field,
And flowers and fruits, and Phoebus fail.
Oh! what remains, what lingers yet,
To cheer me in the darkening hour!
The grape remains! the friend of wit,
In love, and mirth, of mighty power.
Haste - press the clusters, fill the bowl;
Apollo! shoot thy parting ray:
This gives the sunshine of the soul,
This god of health, and verse, and day.
Still - still the jocund train shall flow,
The pulse with vigorous rapture beat;
My Stella with new charms shall glow,
And every bliss in wine shall meet.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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To Autumn
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stainèd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
`The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.
`The spirits of the air live on the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
poem by William Blake
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None Upon Earth I Desire Besides Thee
How tedious and tasteless the hours,
When Jesus no longer I see;
Sweet prospects, sweet birds, and sweet flow'rs,
Have lost all their sweetness with me:
The mid-summer sun shines but dim,
The fields strive in vain to look gay;
But when I am happy in Him,
December's as pleasant as May.
His name yields the richest perfume,
And sweeter than music his voice;
His presence disperses my gloom,
And makes all within me rejoice:
I should, were he always thus nigh,
Have nothing to wish or to fear;
No mortal so happy as I,
My summer would last all the year.
Content with beholding his face,
My all to his pleasure resigned;
No changes of season or place,
Would make any change in my mind:
While blessed with a sense of his love,
A palace a toy would appear;
And prisons would palaces prove,
If Jesus would dwell with me there.
Dear Lord, if indeed I am thine,
If thou art my sun and my song;
Say, why do I languish and pine,
And why are my winters so long?
O drive these dark clouds from my sky,
Thy soul-cheering presence restore;
Or take me unto thee on high,
Where winter and clouds are no more.
poem by John Newton
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Autumn Dreams
Can you smell the morning mist
Roasted leaves cannot resist
The chilled wind of change.
As colours rearrange
That thrill
In orchard dawn the senses fill.
The wine of Autumn dreams to spill.
With scented smoke
Memories evoke
A childrens choir
Around bonfire.
Will you wake to winters' cold
To frozen lake
With skaters bold.
That silent death of ageing year
The bated breath of Christmas cheer.
But is all that glitters what it seems?
I'll find my gold in Autumn dreams.
Where nature set by silver streams
Great art to fade away.
No gallery could ever display
The beauty that the heavens spray.
I know you reminisce
Of Summer love
Or Springs' first kiss.
The frosted snowman moonlit bliss.
Or lonely beach hung with moon
To capture rapture of your hearts tune.
I love the ocean catching beams.
Yet I seek forever Autumn dreams.
poem by Kevin East
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On The Death Of An Infant
Blest Babe! it at length has withdrawn,
The Seraphs have rock'd it to sleep;
Away with an angelic smile it has gone,
And left a sad parent to weep!
It soars from the ocean of pain,
On breezes of precious perfume;
O be not discouraged when death is but gain--
The triumph of life from the tomb.
With pleasure I thought it my own,
And smil'd on its infantile charms;
But some mystic bird, like an eagle, came down,
And snatch'd it away from my arms.
Blest Babe, it ascends into Heaven,
It mounts with delight at the call;
And flies to the bosom from whence it was given,
The Parent and Patron of all.
poem by George Moses Horton
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The Rose
It tossed its head at the wooing breeze;
And the sun, like a bashful swain,
Beamed on it through the waving trees
With a passion all in vain,--
For my rose laughed in a crimson glee,
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The honey-bee came there to sing
His love through the languid hours,
And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king
Might boast of his palace-towers:
But my rose bowed in a mockery,
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The humming-bird, like a courtier gay,
Dipped down with a dalliant song,
And twanged his wings through the roundelay
Of love the whole day long:
Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The firefly came in the twilight dim
My red, red rose to woo--
Till quenched was the flame of love in him,
And the light of his lantern too,
As my rose wept with dewdrops three
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
And I said: I will cull my own sweet rose--
Some day I will claim as mine
The priceless worth of the flower that knows
No change, but a bloom divine--
The bloom of a fadeless constancy
That hides in the leaves in wait for me!
But time passed by in a strange disguise,
And I marked it not, but lay
In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes,
Till the summer slipped away,
And a chill wind sang in a minor key:
'Where is the rose that waits for thee?'
. . . . . . . .
I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain
Of bloom on a withered stalk,
Pelted down by the autumn rain
In the dust of the garden-walk,
That an Angel-rose in the world to be
Will hide in the leaves in wait for me.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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I'd Like To Know More About Nature
I'd like to know more about Nature for of Nature so little i know
Though we see the beauty she creates and the beautiful things she does grow
Her rill that is born by the mountain flows downland by many a hedgerow
And it swells into a mighty river and on towards the ocean does flow.
I'd like to know more about Nature for Nature is an amazing thing
The song bird who sings in your garden sings the same song his father did sing
This is just one wonder of Nature how a small bird remembers a song
And passes it on through his genes to his offsprings a secret that to Nature belong.
I'd like to know more about Nature for of Nature i know little at all
Though i just like billions of others can recognize some birds and animals by their call
Great human minds have studied Nature but they only do learn to realize
That there is far more to our Earth Mother far more to her than meets our eyes.
I'd like to know more about Nature though i look at her every day
She guards her secrets with secrecy and from us she hides them away
And those who say they know all of Nature are those who do broadcast a lie
And Nature she lives on forever and we like all of her life forms must die.
poem by Francis Duggan
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