1630 Nature poems

The harp at Nature’s advent strung Has never ceased to play; The song the stars of morning sung Has never died away. And prayer is made, and praise is given, By all things near and far; The ocean looketh up to heaven, And mirrors every star. Its waves are kneeling on the strand, As kneels the human knee, Their white locks bowing to the sand, The priesthood of the sea! They pour their glittering treasures forth, Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth Take up the song they sing. The green earth sends its incense up From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewy cup She pours her sacred wine. The mists above the morning rills Rise white as wings of prayer; The altar-curtains of the hills Are sunset’s purple air. The winds with hymns of praise are loud, Or low with sobs of pain,— The thunder-organ of the cloud, The dropping tears of rain. With drooping head and branches crossed The twilight forest grieves, Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost From all its sunlit leaves. The blue sky is the temple’s arch, Its transept earth and air, The music of its starry march The chorus of a prayer. So Nature keeps the reverent frame With which her years began, And all her signs and voices shame The prayerless heart of man.

The gallant Youth, who may have gained, Or seeks, a "winsome Marrow," Was but an Infant in the lap When first I looked on Yarrow; Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate Long left without a warder, I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, Great Minstrel of the Border! Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, Their dignity installing In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves Were on the bough, or falling; But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed- The forest to embolden; Reddened the fiery hues, and shot Transparence through the golden. For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on In foamy agitation; And slept in many a crystal pool For quiet contemplation: No public and no private care The freeborn mind enthralling, We made a day of happy hours, Our happy days recalling. Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth, With freaks of graceful folly,- Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, Her Night not melancholy; Past, present, future, all appeared In harmony united, Like guests that meet, and some from far, By cordial love invited. And if, as Yarrow, through the woods And down the meadow ranging, Did meet us with unaltered face, Though we were changed and changing; If, then, some natural shadows spread Our inward prospect over, The soul's deep valley was not slow Its brightness to recover. Eternal blessings on the Muse, And her divine employment! The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons For hope and calm enjoyment; Albeit sickness, lingering yet, Has o'er their pillow brooded; And Care waylays their steps-a Sprite Not easily eluded. For thee, O Scott! compelled to change Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes; And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot For mild Sorrento's breezy waves; May classic Fancy, linking With native Fancy her fresh aid, Preserve thy heart from sinking! Oh! while they minister to thee, Each vying with the other, May Health return to mellow Age With Strength, her venturous brother; And Tiber, and each brook and rill Renowned in song and story, With unimagined beauty shine, Nor lose one ray of glory! For Thou, upon a hundred streams, By tales of love and sorrow, Of faithful love, undaunted truth Hast shed the power of Yarrow; And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, Wherever they invite Thee, At parent Nature's grateful call, With gladness must requite Thee. A gracious welcome shall be thine, Such looks of love and honour As thy own Yarrow gave to me When first I gazed upon her; Beheld what I had feared to see, Unwilling to surrender Dreams treasured up from early days, The holy and the tender. And what, for this frail world, were all That mortals do or suffer, Did no responsive harp, no pen, Memorial tribute offer? Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? Her features, could they win us, Unhelped by the poetic voice That hourly speaks within us? Nor deem that localized Romance Plays false with our affections; Unsanctifies our tears-made sport For fanciful dejections: Ah, no! the visions of the past Sustain the heart in feeling Life as she is-our changeful Life, With friends and kindred dealing. Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day In Yarrow's groves were centred; Who through the silent portal arch Of mouldering Newark entered; And clomb the winding stair that once Too timidly was mounted By the "last Minstrel,"(not the last!) Ere he his Tale recounted. Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream! Fulfil thy pensive duty, Well pleased that future Bards should chant For simple hearts thy beauty; To dream-light dear while yet unseen, Dear to the common sunshine, And dearer still, as now I feel, To memory's shadowy moonshine!

And is this—Yarrow?—This the stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream? An image that hath perished! O that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness! Yet why?—a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness; Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection. Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding: And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning, The Water-wraith ascended thrice— And gave his doleful warning. Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of happy Lovers, The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers: And Pity sanctifies the Verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow! But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation: Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy; The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy. That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature; And, rising from those lofty groves, Behold a Ruin hoary! The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Renowned in Border story. Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in; For manhood to enjoy his strength; And age to wear away in! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of tender thoughts, that nestle there— The brood of chaste affection. How sweet, on this autumnal day, The wild-wood fruits to gather, And on my True-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather! And what if I enwreathed my own! 'Twere no offence to reason; The sober Hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season. I see—but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; A ray of fancy still survives— Her sunshine plays upon thee! Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure; And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, Accordant to the measure. The vapours linger round the Heights, They melt, and soon must vanish; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine— Sad thought, which I would banish, But that I know, where'er I go, Thy genuine image, Yarrow! Will dwell with me—to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow.

Two flags nuzzle each other in the desultory gust because they are fleeing the trees, who are cruel to one another, shading their neighbors to death a mixed bag advocating small business in a loose confederation. The flags don’t give any shade at all. On the anniversary of our country we throw dynamite at the air we build into. * Daylight savings. A beeline to a sea lion, as the children’s song extols, or is it a beeline to a scallion? You hear your own accent— or a child makes an error to see if you’re listening. A heartfelt counterfeit. * A cough muffled in its own sputum’s repeated in the next throat: a family of coughs comes to couch in us while the sun rises over the church, treetops’ psych ops combusting all over the ground tasked with a snowdrop.

A yellow leaf in the branches Of a shamel ash In the front yard; I see it, a yellow leaf Among so many. Nothing distinguishes it, Nothing striking, striped, stripped, Strident, nothing More than its yellow On this day, Which is enough, which makes me Think of it later in the day, Remember it in conversation With a friend, Though I do not mention it— A yellow leaf on a shamel ash On a clear day In an Arizona winter, A January like so many.

Daffodils shimmy in the dilated onion grass their hearts out Shelovesme Shelovesmenot Smeared against the sidewalk Urine left in the toilet all day simmers under halogens Listening to someone else breathe listening to static cling Time to wipe down the refrigerator with a handful of ibuprofen and a bandanna soaked in tonic water Butter-butter Black lemons Pine-Sol • Daffodils shimmy in the dilated onion grass their asses off Other yellow flowers I don’t see you yet Noon tears down the street a terrible kid on a brand-new Now I remember the faces of tulips Speechless Yellow peaches sweat inside brown paper bags Press your forehead against the pit in the perfect peach and everything will stop moving how about that? • Daffodils shimmy in the dilated onion grass their eyes closed Close your eyes I close my eyes Families of worms work their yellow way up through clouds in the mustard air Slams into the yard Pollen lies down on everything it just lies down sun the color of photosynthesis and that’s fine Birds bark inside houses Yellow fingers work the yellow spine

When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue-bird’s warble know, The yellow violet’s modest bell Peeps from the last year’s leaves below. Ere russet fields their green resume, Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, To meet thee, when thy faint perfume Alone is in the virgin air. Of all her train, the hands of Spring First plant thee in the watery mould, And I have seen thee blossoming Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold. Thy parent sun, who bade thee view Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, And earthward bent thy gentle eye, Unapt the passing view to meet When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. Oft, in the sunless April day, Thy early smile has stayed my walk; But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, I passed thee on thy humble stalk. So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them—but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride. And when again the genial hour Awakes the painted tribes of light, I’ll not o’erlook the modest flower That made the woods of April bright.

Just by the wooden brig a bird flew up, Frit by the cowboy as he scrambled down To reach the misty dewberry—let us stoop And seek its nest—the brook we need not dread, 'Tis scarcely deep enough a bee to drown, So it sings harmless o'er its pebbly bed —Ay here it is, stuck close beside the bank Beneath the bunch of grass that spindles rank Its husk seeds tall and high—'tis rudely planned Of bleachèd stubbles and the withered fare That last year's harvest left upon the land, Lined thinly with the horse's sable hair. Five eggs, pen-scribbled o'er with ink their shells Resembling writing scrawls which fancy reads As nature's poesy and pastoral spells— They are the yellowhammer's and she dwells Most poet-like where brooks and flowery weeds As sweet as Castaly to fancy seems And that old molehill like as Parnass' hill On which her partner haply sits and dreams O'er all her joys of song—so leave it still A happy home of sunshine, flowers and streams. Yet in the sweetest places cometh ill, A noisome weed that burthens every soil; For snakes are known with chill and deadly coil To watch such nests and seize the helpless young, And like as though the plague became a guest, Leaving a houseless home, a ruined nest— And mournful hath the little warblers sung When such like woes hath rent its little breast.

You'd think the sky would run out of water, but it won't; it just keeps coming down. I need someone to marvel at the breath escaping from me. Do you have a natural resource you prefer to exploit? Does someone think of you and turn the channel? How would you ever know? Have you ever zoned out during Downton Abbey? I'm certain of something I'd prefer not to tell you about. "Slow down," you say. But I can already see my breath, and its only October. Walking with you is making everything watery and spazzed out, like a movie about sex where I have sex and people are all like, "He's amazing, we really like his sex style!" But I digress. Will you please stand up when called upon to tell the audience how wonderful I was in my best moments; like someone in senior management delegating things and being sure of everything but how to stop? I promise I'll make this up to you. I'll write your name on the menu board, and people will come into the store all expectant of you.

They did the deed of darkness In their own mid-light. He plucked a gray field mouse Suddenly in the wind. The small dead fly alive Helplessly in his beak, His cold pride, helpless. All she receives is life. They are terrified. They touch. Life is too much. She flies away sorrowing. Sorrowing, she goes alone. Then her small falcon, gone. Will not rise here again. Smaller than she, he goes Claw beneath claw beneath Needles and leaning boughs, While she, the lovelier Of these brief differing two, Floats away sorrowing, Tall as my love for you, And almost lonelier. Delighted in the delighting, I love you in mid-air, I love myself the ground. The great wings sing nothing Lightly. Lightly fall.