Bryant On His Birthday
We praise not now the poet's art,
The rounded beauty of his song;
Who weighs him from his life apart
Must do his nobler nature wrong.
Not for the eye, familiar grown
With charms to common sight denied,
The marvellous gift he shares alone
With him who walked on Rydal-side;
Not for rapt hymn nor woodland lay,
Too grave for smiles, too sweet for tears;
We speak his praise who wears to-day
The glory of his seventy years.
When Peace brings Freedom in her train,
Let happy lips his songs rehearse;
His life is now his noblest strain,
His manhood better than his verse!
Thank God! his hand on Nature's keys
Its cunning keeps at life's full span;
But, dimmed and dwarfed, in times like these,
The poet seems beside the man!
So be it! let the garlands die,
The singer's wreath, the painter's meed,
Let our names perish, if thereby
Our country may be saved and freed!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Related quotes
Arguably John Clare
In the English language the greatest poet of Nature is arguably John Clare
Many of his bird and animal and insect poems are gems beyond compare
Yet he died in Northampton mental asylum where he had lived for many years
He penned such marvellous poetry though his life was full of tears.
His Nature poems of the nineteenth century are relevant to today
The Badger and The Landrail, The Fox and Clock a Clay
The Pettichap, The Cuckoo and The Thrush's Nest
When Writing about Nature Clare was at his best.
In death the poor shepherd poet from Helpston has come into his own
His poems poetic classics around the World are known
The greatest Nature poet of England as many would agree
A poet for the ages from a life of poverty.
As a boy amongst Nature in the fields of Helpston he knew of happiness
But sad to think one like him in life did not know of success
With any English Nature poet he favourably does compare
The legendary one of Helpston the reamarkable John Clare.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In the spirit of Rumi - 43 - The Poet
And they often said,
‘O poet, as you call yourself –
why are all your verses
to your divine Beloved, full
of ‘as’ and ‘like’? ’ –
‘Her lips are like red rubies, or as strawberries’…
‘Her neck, as slender as that of a running young gazelle’…
‘Her smile is like sun after rain’…
‘Why do you tempt us with these earthly things? ’
The poet said
‘Like’ and ‘as’ are the keys to heaven, no less:
there is no language spoken yet by men
equal to the language of Her presence –
my truest poetry is spoken in the moment when
I look upon her beauty, but stunned to silence –
but how then to praise her, tell of her
to those who never saw her beauty yet? …
and so, I take those things most familiar,
most dear to the senses of all mortal men,
saying, is this not beautiful? And yet, beyond all this
her beauty, which yet comprehends all sense,
all mind, all spirit, all love, all lovers, is her love…
and even when I do not say those words,
but, silent, let an image come of her:
‘A gazelle ran wide-eyed through my dream; and I awoke
with the taste of strawberries on my lips…’
then, I know myself to be blest by her,
and yet, the image but a teasing veil;
this is her immortal gift to poets –
to know their mortal failure, yet
to sing to men: I saw her but in passing…yet…
now, I am possessed of her, and sworn
the Beloved’s servant all my loving life…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Innocent Beauty Vavroovahana Patra
Innocent beauty lives below the mountain;
Enjoys the beauty of the fountain.
Magnifies the beauty of Nature;
With sweet conversation contents poet’s desire.
Innocent Beauty is a beautiful flower;
In the lap of Nature is a lovely creature.
Her innocence provides inspiration;
She is a cosy rosy Beauty in the lap of Creation.
A little sweet conversation delights the poet day and night;
He is inspired to depict verses with delight.
Derives peace and pleasure;
Derives peace from the lap of Nature.
Beauty passes on the path delightfully;
Poet depicts poems gaily.
Enchants enjoying the Beauty;
She is a Brook of Gaiety.
Vernal Sun beam provides gay;
Beauteous looks the vernal day.
People enchant delightfully;
Poet surrenders on Mother’s feet gaily.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Demon
In bygone days when life's array -
The sweet song of the nightingale
And maidens' eyes, the rustling woods -
Still left a fresh impression on me,
When loftiness of feeling,
And freedom, glory, love
Artistic inspiration
So deeply stirred my blood,
My times of hope were cast in shade
And pleasure dimmed by longing,
For it was then an evil genius
Began to pay me secret visits.
Our meetings were quite dolorous:
His smile, his glance mysterious,
His venom-filled and caustic sermons
Poured frozen poison in my soul.
With endless slandering remarks
He tempted Providence;
He claimed that beauty's but a dream;
Felt scorn for inspiration;
He had no faith in love or freedom;
He looked on life with ridicule-
And in the whole of nature
He did not wish to praise a single thing.
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Our Wonder Of Her Only Does Seem To Grow
The artists and poets by the beauty of Nature inspired to sketch and to write
Their drawings for others to look at and their poems for others to read and recite
And in Nature there is always great beauty to see
In paddock and parkland and on every bush and tree
Once you get to know them you cannot get them wrong
Each species of bird of Nature by their chirp or their song
And though so little of Nature's ways we do seem to know
Our wonder of her only does seem to grow
And in her there is so much to love and admire
And of singing her praises one never could tire
In time brief enough the longest human life span
And Nature will outlive the last woman and man
Since all of her life forms are born to die
That's a fact of Nature and facts never lie.
poem by Francis Duggan
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She Is A Wonder Gift Of Nature
She is a wonder gift of nature
She is my idol girl
She has inner beauty
She has a clear heart
She is a wonder gift of nature
Her smile is like a Lilli in a bloom
Her glowing face is like a fresh flower
Her eyes have an attraction
She is a wonder gift of nature
I blush when I look at her
Her lips wording are like sweet cord
Her hug is only a relaxing moment in my life
Yeah she is really a wonder gift of nature
poem by Fatima Obaid
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The Beauty Of Nature The Poets Inspire
Were I a poet I'd write of Nature's beauty around me
The songs of the birds on bush, hedge and tree
The flowers of the garden so lovely to see
The beauty of Nature to look at is free.
The babble of the waterways the brook, creek and rill
That flow to the river downland from the hill
That flows to the coast all the way to the sea
One of Nature's Goddess wonders none as great as she.
Of singing her praises could one ever tire
The beauty of Nature the poets inspire
To pen their poems to her of her praises they do sing
The beauty of Nature outlives her every Spring.
And though all of her life forms to life come and go
Goddess of Nature whose secrets anybody does not know
Will live on forever she will never die
Unlike all other mortals such as you and I.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sir Walter Scott
DEAD!—it was like a thunderbolt
To hear that he was dead;
Though for long weeks the words of fear
Came from his dying bed;
Yet hope denied, and would deny—
We did not think that he could die.
The poet has a glorious hold
Upon the human heart,
Yet glory is from sympathy
A light alone—apart;
But there was something in thy name,
Which touched us with a dearer claim
The earnest feeling borne to thee
Was like a household tie,
A sunshine on our common life,
And from our daily sky.
Thy works are those familiar things
From which so much of memory springs.
We talked of them beside the hearth,
Till every story blends
With some remembered intercourse
Of near and dearest friends,
Friends that in early youth were ours.
Connected with life's happiest hours.
How well I can recall the time
When first I turned thy page,
The green boughs closed above my head
A natural hermitage;
And sang a little brook along,
As if it heard and caught thy song.
I peopled all the walks and shades
With images of thine;
The lime-tree was a lady's bower,
The yew-tree was a shrine:
Almost I deemed each sunbeam shone
O'er banner, spear, and morion.
Now, not one single trace is left
Of that sequestered nook;
The very course is turned aside
Of that melodious brook:
Not so the memories can depart,
Then garner'd in my inmost heart.
The past was his—his generous song
Went back to other days,
With filial feeling, which still sees
Something to love and praise,
And closer drew the ties which bind
Man with his country and his kind.
It rang throughout his native land,
A bold and stirring song,
As the merle's hymn at matin sweet,
And as the trumpet strong:
A touch there was of each degree,
Half minstrel and half knight was he.
How many a lonely mountain glade
Lives in his verse anew,
Linked with associate sympathy,
The tender and the true;
For nature has fresh beauty brought,
When animate with life from thought.
'Tis not the valley nor the hill,
Tho' beautiful they be,
That can suffice the heart, till touched
As they were touched by thee;
Thou who didst glorify the whole,
By pouring forth the poet's soul.
Who now could stand upon the banks
Of thine own 'silver Tweed?'
Nor deem they heard thy 'warrior's horn,'
Or heard thy 'shepherd's reed?'
Immutable as Nature's claim,
The ground is hallowed by thy name.
I cannot bear to see the shelf
Where ranged thy volumes stand,
And think that mute is now thy lip,
And cold is now thy hand;
That, hadst thou been more common clay,
So soon thou hadst not passed sway,
For thou didst die before thy time,
The tenement o'erwrought,
The heart consumed by its desire,
The body worn by thought;
Thyself the victim of thy shrine,
A glorious sacrifice was thine.
Alas, it is too soon for this—
The future for thy fame;
But now we mourn as if we mourned
A father's cherished claim.
Ah! time may bid the laurel wave—
We can but weep above thy grave.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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My Mother
Every one gives praise about their mothers
But none can give as much praise as me.
She brought me from a country
Where most lived in poverty.
She worked hard and saved her money
So that I may have a better life
She is an excellent mother
And to my father a good wife.
She has been there every step of my life
She turned bad things into right.
She has given me the strength to pursue my dream
For in me, there is something that she has seen.
She taught me how to love and respect
All that GOD has given
and to make life worth living.
Through her pregnancy and through my birth
She has given all her worth.
Then through my childhood years
To my teenage years, she was with me
To shed her tears.
when I was feeling down and out
And I wanted to scream and shout
She was there to wipe my tears
And put to rest, all my fears.
Even now that I am grown
all her love is still shown.
No one can love you more than a mother
And in my life there is no other.
So to my mother this is for you
You are my life, my love, my dream come true
And I am so thankful to you.
poem by Louis Rams
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Harvest Hymn
Now autumn strews on every plain,
His mellow fruits and fertile grain;
And laughing plenty, crown'd with sheaves,
With purple grapes, and spreading leaves.
In rich profusion pours around
Her flowing treasures on the ground.
Oh! mark the great, the liberal hand,
That scatters blessings o'er the land;
And to the God of nature raise
The grateful song, the hymn of praise.
The infant corn, in vernal hours,
He nurtured with his gentle showers,
And bade the summer clouds diffuse
Their balmy store of genial dews.
He mark'd the tender stem arise,
Till ripen'd by the glowing skies,
And now, matured, his work behold,
The cheering harvest waves in gold.
To nature's God with joy we raise
The grateful song, the hymn of praise.
The valleys echo to the strains
Of blooming maids and village swains -
To him they tune the lay sincere,
Whose bounty crowns the smiling year.
The sounds from every woodland borne
The sighing winds that bend the corn,
The yellow fields around proclaim
His mighty, everlasting name.
To nature's God united raise
The grateful song, the hymn of praise
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Songs of Praise the Angels Sang
Songs of praise the angels sang,
Heav’n with alleluias rang,
When creation was begun,
When God spoke and it was done.
Songs of praise awoke the morn
When the Prince of Peace was born;
Songs of praise arose when He
Captive led Captivity.
Heav’n and earth must pass away!
Songs of praise shall crown that day!
God will make new heav’ns and earth;
Songs of praise shall hail their birth.
And can man alone be dumb,
Till that glorious kingdom come?
No: the church delights to raise
Psalms, and hymns, and songs of praise.
Saints below, with heart and voice,
Still in songs of praise rejoice,
Learning here, by faith and love,
Songs of praise to sing above.
Borne upon their latest breath,
Songs of praise shall conquer death;
Then amidst eternal joy,
Songs of praise their powers employ.
Hymns of glory, songs of praise,
Father, unto Thee we raise;
Jesus, glory unto Thee,
With the Spirit, ever be.
poem by James Montgomery
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Psalm 150
v.1,2,6
C. M.
A song of praise.
In God's own house pronounce his praise,
His grace he there reveals;
To heav'n your joy and wonder raise,
For there his glory dwells.
Let all your sacred passions move,
While you rehearse his deeds;
But the great work of saving love
Your highest praise exceeds.
All that have motion, life, and breath,
Proclaim your Maker blest;
Yet, when my voice expires in death,
My soul shall praise him best.
poem by Isaac Watts
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The Other Side Of Life
(alan obryant)
Praise God I feel like singing
Im on the other side of life now
All my days of sorrow
And tears for my loved ones
I wish I could tell them the door that I feel
Though my body is weary
My soul is uplifted
My sins are forgiven and my jesus is real
Praise God I feel like singing
Im on the other side of life now
Though my eyes are dim
I see heaven clearly
Though my voice grows feeble I sing just the same
In my heart theres a song
As I see the gates open
Ill sing forever my joyous refrain
Praise God I feel like singing
Im on the other side of life now
Praise God I feel like singing
Im on the other side of life now
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To The Nightingale
O nightingale, best poet of the grove,
That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee,
Blessed in the full possession of thy love:
O lend that strain, sweet Nighingale, to me!
'Tis mine, alas! to mourn a wretched fate:
I love a maid who all my bosom charms,
Yet lose my days without this lovely mate;
Inhuman fortune keeps her from my arms.
You happy birds! by nature's simple laws
Lead your soft lives, sustained by nature's fare;
You dwell wherever roving fancy draws,
And love and song is all your pleasing care:
But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride,
Dare not be blessed, lest envious tongues should blame;
And hence, in vain I languish for my bride!
O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame.
poem by James Thomson
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If I Should Die Tomorrow Say Only This Of Me
If I should die tomorrow say only this of me
In Nature's marvellous creations great beauty he did see
He found some joy in writing reams of stuff he did write
Though none of it is memorable or worthy to recite
The Reaper has claimed the life from him and if his name we should recall
We can say of him that he loved Nature the most important one of all
For Nature is the greatest the one not destined to die
Immortality for human beings has been based on a lie
If I should die tomorrow and today is my last day
I will return to Nature for that is Nature's way
Of dealing with her life forms on all living things a use by date
Nature's Reaper claims the life from every life form she create
If I should die tomorrow leave me to rest in peace
From life's many cares and worries I will have found release
poem by Francis Duggan
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Silvery Beauty Vavroovahana Patra
Innocent silvery beauty passes on the way;
Poet beholds the beauty of Beauty with gay.
The creation of Nature is alluring;
Innocent Beauty is dazzling.
Beautiful face allures passes by;
Allures lovers with gay.
Beauty is the creation of Almighty;
Beholding, poet derives gaiety.
Beauty tranquilises poet's mind on the way;
Poet derives profound peace with gay.
Curly crisp wavy long cloudy hairs entice the poet;
Mind remains in the world of peace with delight.
Innocent beautiful face allures the poet in evening;
Poet's mind is delighting.
With a little conversation mind is peaceful;
Her sweet talk is delightful.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Astrophel And Stella-First Song
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure?
Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.
Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth?
Who womankind at once both decks and staineth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.
Who hath the feet whose step all sweetness planteth?
Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.
Who hath the breast whose milk doth passions nourish?
Whose grace is such that when it chides doth cherish?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.
Who hath the hand which without stroke subdueth?
Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.
Who hath the hair which, loosest, fastest tieth?
Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only of you the flatterer never lieth.
Who hath the voice which soul from senses sunders?
Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only with you not miracles are wonders.
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Fame
If I should die, to-day,
To-morrow, maybe, the world would see
Would waken from sleep, and say,
"Why here was talent! why here was worth!
Why here was a luminous light o' the earth.
A soul as free
As the winds of the sea:
To whom was given
A dower of heaven.
And fame, and name, and glory belongs
To this dead singer of living songs.
Bring hither a wreath, for the bride of death!"
And so they would praise me, and so they would raise me
Mayhap, a column, high over the bed
Where I should be lying, all cold and dead.
But I am a living poet!
Walking abroad in the sunlight of God,
Not lying asleep, where the clay worms creep,
And the cold world will not show it,
E'en when it sees that my song should please;
But sneering says: "Avaunt, with thy lays
Do not sing them, and do not bring them
Into this rustling, bustling life.
We have no time, for a jingling rhyme,
In this scene of hurrying, worrying strife."
And so I say, there is but one way
To win me a name, and bring me fame.
And that is, to die, and be buried low,
When the world would praise me, an hour or so.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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You Never Stop Learning Though You Are Old And Gray
You never stop learning though you are old and gray
From Life and Nature we learn something new every day
Though of Nature's ways little we do seem to know
And our wonder of her only does seem to grow
The migratory swallows are born to fly
Apart from nesting they do spend their days in the sky
In late Autumn they fly off to warms Lands afar
High above the oceans at the speed of a car
To where they were born they return to breed in the Spring
The workings of Nature are a marvellous thing
The mystery of bird migration never cease to amaze
And some never do tire of singing Nature's praise
I know I'm not one of the enlightened few
But each day from Life and Nature I learn something new.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Rosary
Not on the lute, nor harp of many strings
Shall all men praise the Master of all song.
Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long;
And skilled must be the laureates of kings.
Silent, O lips that utter foolish things!
Rest, awkward fingers striking all notes wrong!
How from your toil shall issue, white and strong,
Music like that God's chosen poet sings?
There is one harp that any hand can play,
And from its strings what harmonies arise!
There is one song that any mouth can say, --
A song that lingers when all singing dies.
When on their beads our Mother's children pray
Immortal music charms the grateful skies.
poem by Joyce Kilmer
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