1630 Nature poems

1 Sometime now past in the Autumnal Tide, When Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed, The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride, Were gilded o’re by his rich golden head. Their leaves and fruits seem’d painted but was true Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hew, Rapt were my senses at this delectable view. 2 I wist not what to wish, yet sure thought I, If so much excellence abide below, How excellent is he that dwells on high? Whose power and beauty by his works we know. Sure he is goodness, wisdom, glory, light, That hath this under world so richly dight. More Heaven than Earth was here, no winter and no night. 3 Then on a stately Oak I cast mine Eye, Whose ruffling top the Clouds seem’d to aspire; How long since thou wast in thine Infancy? Thy strength and stature, more thy years admire, Hath hundred winters past since thou wast born? Or thousand since thou brakest thy shell of horn, If so, all these as nought, Eternity doth scorn. 4 Then higher on the glistering Sun I gaz’d, Whose beams was shaded by the leafy Tree. The more I look’d, the more I grew amaz’d And softly said, what glory’s like to thee? Soul of this world, this Universe’s Eye, No wonder some made thee a Deity: Had I not better known (alas) the same had I. 5 Thou as a Bridegroom from thy Chamber rushes And as a strong man joys to run a race. The morn doth usher thee with smiles and blushes. The Earth reflects her glances in thy face. Birds, insects, Animals with Vegative, Thy heat from death and dullness doth revive: And in the darksome womb of fruitful nature dive. 6 Thy swift Annual and diurnal Course, Thy daily straight and yearly oblique path, Thy pleasing fervour, and thy scorching force, All mortals here the feeling knowledge hath. Thy presence makes it day, thy absence night, Quaternal seasons caused by thy might: Hail Creature, full of sweetness, beauty, and delight. 7 Art thou so full of glory that no Eye Hath strength thy shining Rays once to behold? And is thy splendid Throne erect so high? As, to approach it, can no earthly mould. How full of glory then must thy Creator be? Who gave this bright light luster unto thee: Admir’d, ador’d for ever be that Majesty. 8 Silent alone where none or saw, or heard, In pathless paths I lead my wand’ring feet. My humble Eyes to lofty Skies I rear’d To sing some Song my mazed Muse thought meet. My great Creator I would magnifie, That nature had thus decked liberally: But Ah and Ah again, my imbecility! 9 I heard the merry grasshopper then sing, The black clad Cricket bear a second part. They kept one tune and played on the same string, Seeming to glory in their little Art. Shall creatures abject thus their voices raise? And in their kind resound their maker’s praise: Whilst I, as mute, can warble forth no higher layes. 10 When present times look back to Ages past And men in being fancy those are dead, It makes things gone perpetually to last And calls back months and years that long since fled It makes a man more aged in conceit, Than was Methuselah or’s grand-sire great: While of their persons and their acts his mind doth treat. 11 Sometimes in Eden fair he seems to be, See glorious Adam there made Lord of all, Fancies the Apple, dangle on the Tree, That turn’d his Sovereign to a naked thrall, Who like a miscreant’s driven from that place To get his bread with pain and sweat of face: A penalty impos’d on his backsliding Race. 12 Here sits our Grandame in retired place, And in her lap her bloody Cain new born, The weeping Imp oft looks her in the face, Bewails his unknown hap and fate forlorn; His Mother sighs to think of Paradise, And how she lost her bliss, to be more wise, Believing him that was, and is, Father of lyes. 13 Here Cain and Abel come to sacrifice, Fruits of the Earth and Fatlings each do bring, On Abels gift the fire descends from Skies, But no such sign on false Cain’s offering; With sullen hateful looks he goes his wayes. Hath thousand thoughts to end his brothers dayes, Upon whose blood his future good he hopes to raise. 14 There Abel keeps his sheep, no ill he thinks, His brother comes, then acts his fratricide. The Virgin Earth of blood her first draught drinks, But since that time she often hath been cloy’d; The wretch with ghastly face and dreadful mind, Thinks each he sees will serve him in his kind, Though none on Earth but kindred near then could he find. 15 Who fancies not his looks now at the Barr, His face like death, his heart with horror fraught, Nor Male-factor ever felt like warr, When deep despair with wish of life hath fought, Branded with guilt, and crusht with treble woes, A Vagabond to Land of Nod he goes. A City builds, that wals might him secure from foes. 16 Who thinks not oft upon the Fathers ages. Their long descent, how nephews sons they saw, The starry observations of those Sages, And how their precepts to their sons were law, How Adam sigh’d to see his Progeny, Cloath’d all in his black, sinful Livery, Who neither guilt not yet the punishment could fly. 17 Our Life compare we with their length of dayes Who to the tenth of theirs doth now arrive? And though thus short, we shorten many wayes, Living so little while we are alive; In eating, drinking, sleeping, vain delight So unawares comes on perpetual night, And puts all pleasures vain unto eternal flight. 18 When I behold the heavens as in their prime, And then the earth (though old) still clad in green, The stones and trees, insensible of time, Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen; If winter come, and greenness then do fade, A Spring returns, and they more youthfull made; But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once he’s laid. 19 By birth more noble than those creatures all, Yet seems by nature and by custom curs’d, No sooner born, but grief and care makes fall That state obliterate he had at first: Nor youth, nor strength, nor wisdom spring again Nor habitations long their names retain, But in oblivion to the final day remain. 20 Shall I then praise the heavens, the trees, the earth Because their beauty and their strength last longer Shall I wish there, or never to had birth, Because they’re bigger and their bodyes stronger? Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade and dye, And when unmade, so ever shall they lye, But man was made for endless immortality. 21 Under the cooling shadow of a stately Elm Close sate I by a goodly Rivers side, Where gliding streams the Rocks did overwhelm; A lonely place, with pleasures dignifi’d. I once that lov’d the shady woods so well, Now thought the rivers did the trees excel, And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell. 22 While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye, Which to the long’d-for Ocean held its course, I markt, nor crooks, nor rubs that there did lye Could hinder ought but still augment its force: O happy Flood, quoth I, that holds thy race Till thou arrive at thy beloved place, Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace. 23 Nor is’t enough that thou alone may’st slide, But hundred brooks in thy cleer waves do meet, So hand in hand along with thee they glide To Thetis house, where all imbrace and greet: Thou Emblem true of what I count the best, O could I lead my Rivolets to rest, So may we press to that vast mansion, ever blest. 24 Ye Fish which in this liquid Region ’bide That for each season have your habitation, Now salt, now fresh where you think best to glide To unknown coasts to give a visitation, In Lakes and ponds, you leave your numerous fry, So Nature taught, and yet you know not why, You watry folk that know not your felicity. 25 Look how the wantons frisk to tast the air, Then to the colder bottome streight they dive, Eftsoon to Neptun’s glassy Hall repair To see what trade they, great ones, there do drive, Who forrage o’re the spacious sea-green field, And take the trembling prey before it yield, Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins their shield. 26 While musing thus with contemplation fed, And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain, The sweet-tongu’d Philomel percht ore my head, And chanted forth a most melodious strain Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, I judg’d my hearing better than my sight, And wisht me wings with her a while to take my flight. 27 O merry Bird (said I) that fears no snares, That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn, Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm Thy clothes ne’re wear, thy meat is every where, Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water cleer, Reminds not what is past, nor whats to come dost fear. 28 The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent, Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew, So each one tunes his pretty instrument, And warbling out the old, begin anew, And thus they pass their youth in summer season, Then follow thee into a better Region, Where winter’s never felt by that sweet airy legion. 29 Man at the best a creature frail and vain, In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak, Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain, Each storm his state, his mind, his body break, From some of these he never finds cessation, But day or night, within, without, vexation, Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near’st Relation. 30 And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain, This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow, This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain, Joys not in hope of an eternal morrow; Nor all his losses, crosses and vexation, In weight, in frequency and long duration Can make him deeply groan for that divine Translation. 31 The Mariner that on smooth waves doth glide, Sings merrily and steers his Barque with ease, As if he had command of wind and tide, And now becomes great Master of the seas; But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport, And makes him long for a more quiet port, Which ’gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort. 32 So he that faileth in this world of pleasure, Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th’ sowre, That’s full of friends, of honour and of treasure, Fond fool, he takes this earth ev’n for heav’ns bower, But sad affliction comes and makes him see Here’s neither honour, wealth, nor safety; Only above is found all with security. 33 O Time the fatal wrack of mortal things, That draws oblivions curtains over kings, Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not, Their names without a Record are forgot, Their parts, their ports, their pomp’s all laid in th’ dust. Nor wit, nor gold, nor buildings scape times rust; But he whose name is grav’d in the white stone Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.

They brought it. It was brought from the field, the last sheaf, the last bundle the latest and most final armful. Up up over the head, hold it, hold it high it held the gazer’s gaze, it held hope, did hold it. Through the stubble of September, on shoulders aloft, hardly anything, it weighed, like a sparrow, it was said, something winged, hollow, though pulsing, freed from the field where it flailed in wind, where it waited, wanted to be found and bound with cord. It had limbs, it had legs. And hands. It had fingers. Fingers and a face peering from the stalks, shuttered in the grain, closed, though just a kernel a shut corm. They brought him and autumn rushed in, tossed its cape of starlings, tattered the frost-spackled field.

I saluted the famous river as I do every year Turning south as if the plough steered, Kicking, at the start of a new furrow, my back To the shady purple gardens with benches under plum trees By the river that hunts between piers and sandbanks— I began threading the long bridge, I bowed my head And lifted my hands from the wheel for an instant of trust, I faced the long rows of vines curving up the hillside Lightly like feathers, and longer than the swallow’s flight, My road already traced before me in a dance Of three nights and three days, Of sidestepping hills and crescent lights blinding me (If there was just a bar counter and ice and a glass, and a room upstairs: But it rushed past me and how many early starts before The morning when the looped passes descend to the ruined arch?) She came rising up out of the water, her eyes were like sandbanks The wrinkles in her forehead were like the flaws in the mist (maybe a long narrow boat with a man lying down and a rod and line like a frond of hair dipping in the stream) She was humming the song about the estuary, and the delights Of a salt ocean, the lighthouse like a summons; and she told me: The land will not go to that measure, it lasts, you’ll see How the earth widens and mountains are empty, only With tracks that search and dip, from here to the city of Rome Where the road gallops up to the dome as big as the sun. You will see your sister going ahead of you And she will not need to rest, but you must lie In the dry air of your hotel where the traffic grinds before dawn, The cello changing gear at the foot of the long hill, And think of the story of the suitors on horseback Getting ready to trample up the mountain of glass.

I go to the mountain side of the house to cut saplings, and clear a view to snow on the mountain. But when I look up, saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in the uppermost branches. I don’t cut that one. I don’t cut the others either. Suddenly, in every tree, an unseen nest where a mountain would be. for Drago Štambuk

The Shannon when it washes the shoreline in the wake of a cruiser susurruses exactly like the Polish language you hear in lidl on Friday evenings, 7 pm payday. That’s what Gerry says. • The river surface offers space to the song: hammer taps of Latvians and Poles nailing planks of a deck.        The place between water and sky holding sound. It is under- loved and an amphitheater. • Latvians and Lithuanians are nailing planks of grooved decking. It will be a nice feature of that riverside property. Their tap-tapping underscores the distance between this side and that. • Winter gales have made swift work of the billboard proclaiming 42 luxury bungalows only two remaining

He lives, who last night flopped from a log Into the creek, and all night by an ankle Lay pinned to the flood, dead as a nail But for the skin of the teeth of his dog. I brought him boiled eggs and broth. He coughed and waved his spoon And sat up saying he would dine alone, Being fatigue itself after that bath. I sat without in the sun with the dog. Wearing a stocking on the ailing foot, In monster crutches, he hobbled out, And addressed the dog in bitter rage. He told the yellow hound, his rescuer, Its heart was bad, and it ought Not wander by the creek at night; If all his dogs got drowned he would be poor. He stroked its head and disappeared in the shed And came out with a stone mallet in his hands And lifted that rocky weight of many pounds And let it lapse on top of the dog's head. I carted off the carcass, dug it deep. Then he came too with what a thing to lug, Or pour on a dog’s grave, his thundermug, And poured it out and went indoors to sleep. I saw him sleepless in the pane of glass Looking wild-eyed at sunset, then the glare Blinded the glass—only a red square Burning a house burning in the wilderness.

A tulip, just opened, had offered to hold A butterfly, gaudy and gay; And, rocked in a cradle of crimson and gold, The careless young slumberer lay. For the butterfly slept, as such thoughtless ones will, At ease, and reclining on flowers, If ever they study, ’t is how they may kill The best of their mid-summer hours. And the butterfly dreamed, as is often the case With indolent lovers of change, Who, keeping the body at ease in its place, Give fancy permission to range. He dreamed that he saw, what he could but despise, The swarm from a neighbouring hive; Which, having come out for their winter supplies, Had made the whole garden alive. He looked with disgust, as the proud often do, On the diligent movements of those, Who, keeping both present and future in view, Improve every hour as it goes. As the brisk little alchymists passed to and fro, With anger the butterfly swelled; And called them mechanics – a rabble too low To come near the station he held. ‘Away from my presence!’ said he, in his sleep, ‘Ye humbled plebeians! nor dare Come here with your colorless winglets to sweep The king of this brilliant parterre!’ He thought, at these words, that together they flew, And, facing about, made a stand; And then, to a terrible army they grew, And fenced him on every hand. Like hosts of huge giants, his numberless foes Seemed spreading to measureless size: Their wings with a mighty expansion arose, And stretched like a veil o’er the skies. Their eyes seemed like little volcanoes, for fire,— Their hum, to a cannon-peal grown,— Farina to bullets was rolled in their ire, And, he thought, hurled at him and his throne. He tried to cry quarter! his voice would not sound, His head ached – his throne reeled and fell; His enemy cheered, as he came to the ground, And cried, ‘King Papilio, farewell!’ His fall chased the vision – the sleeper awoke, The wonderful dream to expound; The lightning’s bright flash from the thunder-cloud broke, And hail-stones were rattling around. He’d slumbered so long, that now, over his head, The tempest’s artillery rolled; The tulip was shattered – the whirl-blast had fled, And borne off its crimson and gold. ’T is said, for the fall and the pelting, combined With suppressed ebullitions of pride, This vain son of summer no balsam could find, But he crept under covert and died.

An old woodcut of the London Bridge and a colored lithograph of a barley field. There are no other pictures on Ward D. The London Bridge lifts sooty towers above the river. But it's the barley field I see. A golden ocean of barley. It's not like the other grain-fields. Maybe it's those inward-looking eyes gone into it so it becomes heaven? A fall-colored sky, mild, with no harvesters and no scythes.

The cave looked much like any other from a little distance but as we approached, came almost to its mouth, we saw its walls within that slanted up into a dome were beating like a wild black lung— it was plastered and hung with the pulsing bodies of bats, the organ music of the body’s deep interior, alive, the sacred cave with its ten thousand gleaming eyes near the clustered rocks where the sea beat with the leather wings of its own dark waves. Below the bat-hung, throbbing walls, an altar stood, glittering with guano, a stucco sculpture like a Gaudi church, berserk Baroque, stone translated into flux—murk and mud and the floral extravagance of wet sand dripped from a giant hand, giving back blessing, excrement—return for the first fruits offered to the gods. We stayed outside, superior with fear, like tourists peering through a door, whose hanging beads rattle in the air from one who disappeared into the dim interior; we thought of the caves of Marabar, of a writer who entered and never quite emerged— the caves’ echoing black emptiness a tunnel in the English soul where he is wandering still. So the bat cave on the Bali coast, not far from Denpasar, holds us off, and beckons ... Standing there now, at the mouth of the cave—this time we enter, feel inside the flutter of those many hearts, the radiant heat of pumping veins, the stretch of wing on bone like a benediction, and the familiar faces of this many-headed god, benevolent as night is to the weary—the way at dark the cave releases them all, how they must lift like the foam on a wave breaking, how many they are as they enter the starlit air, and scatter in wild wide arcs in search of fruit, the sweet bites of mosquito ... while the great domes of our own kind slide open, the eye that watches, tracks the skies, and the huge doors roll slowly back on the hangars, the planes push out their noses of steel, their wings a bright alloy of aluminum and death, they roar down the runways, tear into the night, their heavy bodies fueled from sucking at the hidden veins of earth; they leave a trail of fire behind them as they scar the air, filling the dreams of children, sleeping—anywhere, Chicago, Baghdad—with blood, as the bombs drop, as the world splits open, as the mothers reach for their own in the night of the falling sky, madness in method, nature gone into reverse ... here, nearly unperturbed, the bats from the sacred cave fill the night with their calls, high-pitched, tuned to the solid world as eyes to the spectrum of light, gnats to the glow of a lamp—the bats circle, the clouds wheel, the earth turns pulling the dome of stars among the spinning trees, blurring the sweet globes of fruit, shaped exactly to desire—dizzy, we swing back to the cave on our stiff dark wings, the sweet juice of papaya drying on our jaws, home to the cave, to attach ourselves back to the pulsing dome, until, hanging there, sated and sleepy, we can see what was once our world upside down as it is and wonder whose altars those are, white, encrusted with shit.

The batture’s water and sand disappear when water swells the river, heat’s portion of a northern winter. Under willows cropped up since our last cow is dead and carried to the batture to be taken by the water clean into another season, we sit on green granite piled deep enough to keep the batture dry one more week. We don’t say so but we wait for the swollen body to appear before us, we want the torn leg to distract us, the loose arm to show us where. We’ve always known which way the water runs, the differences among earth, air, water and whatever the horizon offers that is not actually there. We want to be the ones to identify the missing person. We count the reward we’d earn. There is a family in southern Minnesota keeping a closet of dry-cleaned suits, a mahogany high-boy of ironed shirts, folded undershorts and sweaters. In the ashtray that says Welcome to Nevada are the coins he left without thinking, the only clue which tells his family what they didn’t want to know, he might have known what he was doing. We want to be the ones whose call is first in a series of related events which will end we hope in the family’s satisfaction with the coroner’s identification, and though it is old-fashioned and no longer done in this country, we’d like to think the pennies from his pocket will be mailed to the morgue, polished to their copper finish, pressed to float forever on his eyelids and make us take a second look as the light hits them and they beautifully glitter. We think how glad we were when we first saw him he floated face down in the water which a few moments earlier had been snow his children sledded and slipped on. Light beats gravity, lifts these young trees from the water. This is where we watch time, mark the spot across the water which is the red flag we hope calls us come across and save us. This is twenty-eight states.