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Emily Dickinson
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In 1830, Emily Dickinson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, and died on May 15th – 1886. She has a wide amount of literally works, including beautiful poems.
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NATURE CAN DO NO MORE She has fulfilled her Dyes Whatever Flower fail to come Of other Summer days Her crescent reimburse If other Summers be Nature's imposing negative Nulls opportunity –
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H Henry Wad dsworth Lo ongfellow
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(Febrruary 27, 1807 – Marc ch 24, 1882) He was a North American te eacher and a poet. He was bo orn in Portland, Maine e. He wrotte lyric poe ems that ha ave a lot of f music cality and often o have a lot of my ythology an nd legendss.
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NATURE As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
I shot an arrow into the air I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroken; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.
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Edna St. Vincent Millay
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(February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950) She was a North American lyrical poet who was a feminist. She got a Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. She was an activist, a very strong woman, and she was also known for her plenty of love affairs.
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The leaf and the tree
When will you learn, myself, to be a dying leaf on a living tree? Budding, swelling, growing strong, Wearing green, but not for long, Drawing sustenance from air, That other leaves, and you not there, May bud, and at the autumn's call Wearing russet, ready to fall? Has not this trunk a deed to do Unguessed by small and tremulous you? Shall not these branches in the end To wisdom and the truth ascend? And the great lightning plunging by Look sidewise with a golden eye To glimpse a tree so tall and proud It sheds its leaves upon a cloud? Here, I think, is the heart's grief: The tree, no mightier than the leaf, Makes firm its root and spreads it crown And stands; but in the end comes down. That airy top no boy could climb Is trodden in a little time By cattle on their way to drink. The fluttering thoughts a leaf can think, That hears the wind and waits its turn, Have taught it all a tree can learn. Time can make soft that iron wood.
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The tallest trunk that ever stood, In time, without a dream to keep, Crawls in beside the root to sleep.
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Joyce Kylmer
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(December 6, 1886-July 30, 1918) He was a North American poet; his bestknown work is "Trees". The poem was given a musical setting that was really popular in the 1940s and 1950s.
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TREES I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.
BjørnstjerneMartinusBjørnson
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Norwegian writer born on8 December 1832 anddied on 26 April 1910, he wrote about social, political, moral and aesthetic issues and influenced Norway literature.
Open Water Open water, open water! All the weary winter’s yearning Bursts in restless passion burning. Scarce is seen the blue of ocean, And the hours seem months in motion. Open water, open water! Smiles the sun on ice defiant, Eats it like a shameless giant: Soon as mouth of sun forsakes it, Swift the freezing night remakes it. Open water, open water! Storm shall be the overcomer Sweeping on from others’ summer Billows free all foes to swallow,— Crash and fall and sinking follow. Open water, open water! Mirrored mountains are appearing, Boats with steam and sail are nearing, Inward come the wide world’s surges, Outward joy of combat urges. Open water, open water! Fiery sun and cooling shower Quicken earth to speak with power. Soul responds, the wonder viewing: Strength is here for life’s renewing.
MeishGoldish
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Born in Tulsa, OklahomaHe is an author of fiction and nonfiction books and poetry. He has written over 300 books. One of his biggest-selling books is called 101 Science
WATER Water, water everywhere, water all around, Water in the ocean, water in the ground. Water in a river, water in a creek, Water in a faucet with a drip-drip leak! Water in a fountain, water in a lake, Water on a flower, as day begins to break. Water from a waterfall, rushing down from high, Water from a dark cloud, raining from the sky. Water boiling hot, water frozen ice, Water in a blue lagoon, clean and clear and nice. Water at a fire, gushing through a hose, Water in a garden, so every flower grows. Water for the animals swimming in the sea, Water, water everywhere for you and for me!
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William Butler Yeats
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He was an Irish poet and playwright (1865-1939). He is one of the most representatives of the Irish literature Renaissance and one of the creators of the Abbey Theater. He also won the Nobel Prize of Literature in 1923
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The Ragged Wood
O hurry where by water among the trees The delicate-stepping stag and his lady sigh, When they have but looked upon their images Would none had ever loved but you and I! Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoed Pale silver-proud queen-woman of the sky, When the sun looked out of his golden hood? O that none ever loved but you and I! O hurty to the ragged wood, for there I will drive all those lovers out and cry O my share of the world, O yellow hair! No one has ever loved but you and I.
The host of the Air O'Driscoll drove with a song The wild duck and the drake From the tall and the tufted reeds Of the drear HartLake. And he saw how the reeds grew dark At the coming of night-tide, And dreamed of the long dim hair Of Bridget his bride. He heard while he sang and dreamed A piper piping away, And never was piping so sad,
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And never was piping so gay. And he saw young men and young girls Who danced on a level place, And Bridget his bride among them, With a sad and a gay face. The dancers crowded about him And many a sweet thing said, And a young man brought him red wine And a young girl white bread. But Bridget drew him by the sleeve Away from the merry bands, To old men playing at cards With a twinkling of ancient hands. The bread and the wine had a doom, For these were the host of the air; He sat and played in a dream Of her long dim hair. He played with the merry old men And thought not of evil chance, Until one bore Bridget his bride Away from the merry dance. He bore her away in his arms, The handsomest young man there, And his neck and his breast and his arms Were drowned in her long dim hair. O'Driscoll scattered the cards
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And out of his dream awoke: Old men and young men and young girls Were gone like a drifting smoke; But he heard high up in the air A piper piping away, And never was piping so sad, And never was piping so gay.
Charlotte Brontë
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English novelist and poet (1816 – 1855), known for her novel Jane Eyre (1847). She has three sisters and they are famous because of their short and tragic life. In her work he described love more truthfully that was common in Victorian age in England.
The wood
But two miles more, and then we rest! Well, there is still an hour of day, And long the brightness of the West Will light us on our devious way; Sit then, awhile, here in this wood-So total is the solitude, We safely may delay. These massive roots afford a seat, Which seems for weary travelers made. There rest. The air is soft and sweet In this sequestered forest glade, And there are scents of flowers around, The evening dew draws from the ground; How soothingly they spread! Yes; I was tired, but not at heart; No—that beats full of sweet content, For now I have my natural part Of action with adventure blent; Cast forth on the wide world with thee, And all my once waste energy To weighty purpose bent. Yet—sayst thou, spies around us roam, Our aims are termed conspiracy? Haply, no more our English home An anchorage for us may be? That there is risk our mutual blood May redden in some lonely wood The knife of treachery?
Sayst thou, that where we lodge each night, In each lone farm, or lonelier hall Of Norman Peer—ere morning light Suspicion must as duly fall, As day returns—such vigilance Presides and watches over France, Such rigor governs all? I fear not, William; dost thou fear? So that the knife does not divide, It may be ever hovering near: I could not tremble at thy side, And strenuous love—like mine for thee-Is buckler strong ‘gainst treachery, And turns its stab aside. I am resolved that thou shalt learn To trust my strength as I trust thine; I am resolved our souls shall burn With equal, steady, mingling shine; Part of the field is conquered now, Our lives in the same channel flow, Along the self-same line; And while no groaning storm is heard, Thou seem’st content it should be so, But soon as comes a warning word Of danger—straight thine anxious brow Bends over me a mournful shade, As doubting if my powers are made To ford the floods of woe. Know, then it is my spirit swells, And drinks, with eager joy, the air Of freedom—where at last it dwells, Chartered, a common task to share With thee, and then it stirs alert,
And pants to learn what menaced hurt Demands for thee its care. Remember, I have crossed the deep, And stood with thee on deck, to gaze On waves that rose in threatening heap, While stagnant lay a heavy haze, Dimly confusing sea with sky, And baffling, even, the pilot’s eye, Intent to thread the maze-Of rocks, on Bretagne’s dangerous coast, And find a way to steer our band To the one point obscure, which lost, Flung us, as victims, on the strand;-All, elsewhere, gleamed the Gallic sword, And not a wherry could be moored Along the guarded land. I feared not then—I fear not now; The interest of each stirring scene Wakes a new sense, a welcome glow, In every nerve and bounding vein ; Alike on turbid Channel sea, Or in still wood of Normandy, I feel as born again. The rain descended that wild morn When, anchoring in the cove at last, Our band, all weary and forlorn Ashore, like wave-worn sailors, cast-Sought for a sheltering roof in vain, And scarce could scanty food obtain To break their morning fast. Thou didst thy crust with me divide, Thou didst thy cloak around me fold; And, sitting silent by thy side,
I ate the bread in peace untold: Given kindly from thy hand, ‘twas sweet As costly fare or princely treat On royal plate of gold. Sharp blew the sleet upon my face, And, rising wild, the gusty wind Drove on those thundering waves apace, Our crew so late had left behind; But, spite of frozen shower and storm, So close to thee, my heart beat warm, And tranquil slept my mind. So now—nor foot-sore nor opprest With walking all this August day, I taste a heaven in this brief rest, This gipsy-halt beside the way. England’s wild flowers are fair to view, Like balm is England’s summer dew Like gold her sunset ray. But the white violets, growing here, Are sweeter than I yet have seen, And ne’er did dew so pure and clear Distil on forest mosses green, As now, called forth by summer heat, Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat-These fragrant limes between. That sunset! Look beneath the boughs, Over the copse—beyond the hills; How soft, yet deep and warm it glows, And heaven with rich suffusion fills; With hues where still the opal’s tint, Its gleam of prisoned fire is blent, Where flame through azure thrills! Depart we now—for fast will fade
That solemn splendour of decline, And deep must be the after-shade As stars alone to-night will shine; No moon is destined—pale—to gaze On such a day’s vast Phoenix blaze, A day in fires decayed! There—hand-in-hand we tread again The mazes of this varying wood, And soon, amid a cultured plain, Girt in with fertile solitude, We shall our resting-place descry, Marked by one roof-tree, towering high Above a farmstead rude. Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare, We’ll seek a couch of dreamless ease; Courage will guard thy heart from fear, And Love give mine divinest peace: To-morrow brings more dangerous toil, And through its conflict and turmoil We’ll pass, as God shall please.
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Alfred Tennyson
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Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892), was an English poet often regarded as the chief representative of the Victorian age in poetry of England and of the entire world. Tennyson succeeded Wordsworth as Poet Laureate in 1850.
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Marriage Morning
Light, so low upon earth, You send a flash to the sun. Here is the golden close of love, All my wooing is done. Oh, the woods and the meadows, Woods where we hid from the wet, Stiles where we stay'd to be kind, Meadows in which we met! Light, so low in the vale You flash and lighten afar, For this is the golden morning of love, And you are his morning star. Flash, I am coming, I come, By meadow and stile and wood, Oh, lighten into my eyes and heart, Into my heart and my blood! Heart, are you great enough For a love that never tires? O' heart, are you great enough for love? I have heard of thorns and briers, Over the meadow and stiles, Over the world to the end of it Flash for a million miles
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William Blake
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English writer and poet (1757 – 1827) He was one of the most singular and important personage of the English art and literature. For some people, he was a mystical light but for others he was just a poor crazy man. Nowadays, William Blake is considered l a visionary.
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A Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears, Night and morning with my tears; And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright. And my foe beheld it shine. And he knew that it was mine, And into my garden stole When the night had veiled the pole; In the morning glad I see My foe outstretched beneath the tree
Henry Van Dyke
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Born in Germantown, Pennsylvania (1852- 1933), sensitive poet who expressedhis love for nature in most of his poems.
God of the open Air I Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair With flowers beneath, above with starry lights, And set thine altars everywhere,-On mountain heights, In woodlands dim with many a dream, In valleys bright with springs, And on the curving capes of every stream: Thou who hast taken to thyself the wings Of morning, to abide Upon the secret places of the sea, And on far islands, where the tide Visits the beauty of untrodden shores, Waiting for worshippers to come to thee In thy great out-of-doors! To thee I turn, to thee I make my prayer, God of the open air.
II Seeking for thee, the heart of man Lonely and longing ran, In that first, solitary hour, When the mysterious power To know and love the wonder of the morn Was breathed within him, and his soul was born;
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And thou didst meet thy child, Not in some hidden shrine, But in the freedom of the garden wild, And take his hand in thine,-There all day long in Paradise he walked, And in the cool of evening with thee talked.
III Lost, long ago, that garden bright and pure, Lost, that calm day too perfect to endure, And lost the childlike love that worshipped and was sure! For men have dulled their eyes with sin, And dimmed the light of heaven with doubt, And built their temple walls to shut thee in, And framed their iron creeds to shut thee out. But not for thee the closing of the door, O Spirit unconfined! Thy ways are free As is the wandering wind, And thou hast wooed thy children, to restore Their fellowship with thee, In peace of soul and simpleness of mind.
IV Joyful the heart that, when the flood rolled by, Leaped up to see the rainbow in the sky; And glad the pilgrim, in the lonely night, For whom the hills of Haran, tier on tier, Built up a secret stairway to the height
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Where stars like angel eyes were shining clear. From mountain-peaks, in many a land and age, Disciples of the Persian seer Have hailed the rising sun and worshipped thee; And wayworn followers of the Indian sage Have found the peace of God beneath a spreading tree. But One, but One,--ah, child most dear, And perfect image of the Love Unseen,-Walked every day in pastures green, And all his life the quiet waters by, Reading their beauty with a tranquil eye. To him the desert was a place prepared For weary hearts to rest; The hillside was a temple blest; The grassy vale a banquet-room Where he could feed and comfort many a guest. With him the lily shared The vital joy that breathes itself in bloom; And every bird that sang beside the nest Told of the love that broods o'er every living thing. He watched the shepherd bring His flock at sundown to the welcome fold, The fisherman at daybreak fling His net across the waters gray and cold, And all day long the patient reaper swing His curving sickle through the harvest-gold. So through the world the foot-path way he trod, Drawing the air of heaven in every breath; And in the evening sacrifice of death Beneath the open sky he gave his soul to God. Him will I trust, and for my Master take;
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Him will I follow; and for his dear sake, God of the open air, To thee I make my prayer.
V >From the prison of anxious thought that greed has builded, >From the fetters that envy has wrought and pride has gilded, >From the noise of the crowded ways and the fierce confusion, >From the folly that wastes its days in a world of illusion, (Ah, but the life is lost that frets and languishes there!) I would escape and be free in the joy of the open air. By the breadth of the blue that shines in silence o'er me, By the length of the mountain-lines that stretch before me, By the height of the cloud that sails, with rest in motion, Over the plains and the vales to the measureless ocean, (Oh, how the sight of the things that are great enlarges the eyes!) Lead me out of the narrow life, to the peace of the hills and the skies. While the tremulous leafy haze on the woodland is spreading, And the bloom on the meadow betrays where May has been treading; While the birds on the branches above, and the brooks flowing under, Are singing together of love in a world full of wonder, (Lo, in the marvel of Springtime, dreams are changed into truth!) Quicken my heart, and restore the beautiful hopes of youth. By the faith that the flowers show when they bloom unbidden, By the calm of the river's flow to a goal that is hidden, By the trust of the tree that clings to its deep foundation, By the courage of wild birds' wings on the long migration,
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(Wonderful secret of peace that abides in Nature's breast!) Teach me how to confide, and live my life, and rest. For the comforting warmth of the sun that my body embraces, For the cool of the waters that run through the shadowy places, For the balm of the breezes that brush my face with their fingers, For the vesper-hymn of the thrush when the twilight lingers, For the long breath, the deep breath, the breath of a heart without care,-I will give thanks and adore thee, God of the open air!
VI These are the gifts I ask Of thee, Spirit serene: Strength for the daily task, Courage to face the road, Good cheer to help me bear the traveller's load, And, for the hours of rest that come between, An inward joy in all things heard and seen. These are the sins I fain Would have thee take away: Malice, and cold disdain, Hot anger, sullen hate, Scorn of the lowly, envy of the great, And discontent that casts a shadow gray On all the brightness of the common day. These are the things I prize And hold of dearest worth: Light of the sapphire skies, Peace of the silent hills,
Shelter of forests, comfort of the grass, Music of birds, murmur of little rills, Shadow of clouds that swiftly pass, And, after showers, The smell of flowers And of the good brown earth,-And best of all, along the way, friendship and mirth. So let me keep These treasures of the humble heart In true possession, owning them by love; And when at last I can no longer move Among them freely, but must part From the green fields and from the waters clear, Let me not creep Into some darkened room and hide From all that makes the world so bright and dear; But throw the windows wide To welcome in the light; And while I clasp a well-beloved hand, Let me once more have sight Of the deep sky and the far-smiling land,-Then gently fall on sleep, And breathe my body back to Nature's care, My spirit out to thee, God of the open air
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Rob bert Lowell
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Roberrt Lowell was w born in 1917 into one of Bosston's oldesst and mosst prominen nt families Noted for his com mplex, orattorical poetry, and tu urbulent lif fe Lowell died of o heart fa ailure in a taxi t on Sep ptember 12 2, 1977, in New York..
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WATER
It was a Maine lobster town— each morning boatloads of hands pushed off for granite quarries on the islands, and left dozens of bleak white frame houses stuck like oyster shells on a hill of rock, and below us, the sea lapped the raw little match-stick mazes of a weir, where the fish for bait were trapped. Remember? We sat on a slab of rock. >From this distance in time it seems the color of iris, rotting and turning purple, but it was only the usual gray rock turning the usual green when drenched by the sea. The sea drenched the rock at our feet all day, and kept tearing away flake after flake. One night you dreamed you were a mermaid clinging to a wharf-pile
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and trying to pull off the barnacles with your hands. We wished our two souls might return like gulls to the rock. In the end, the water was too cold for us.
Compilationsmadeby: María Cristina Armenta Gómez Nicolás Becerra Aldana Daniela Alejandra Beltrán Suárez Ana María Cuestas Escobar Carlos Esteban Jaramillo Mor María Alejandra Maldonado Triviño Jorge Enrique Requena Díaz Paloma Ruiz García Emanuel Andrés TaleroEspitia
Sources: Inspirational Poems network Famous Poets and Poems website Poetry Archive website