What is some of the best poetry about the beauty of nature?

What is some of the best poetry about the beauty of nature?

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Holy..... I want more....

This one for the rising of the sun:

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
user permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all-triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.

This for snails:

Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,
And there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to creep forth again;
So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled
Into the deep dark cabins of her head:

Frost

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

About Eagles

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

A lot of the romantic era poetry is based around a fascination with nature and individuality, which i think fits what you are looking for.
My personal favs are keats and blake, so i would naturally recommend their stuff, but do check out some other contemporary poets; its good stuff.

About the tempestuous seas

Montano. What from the cape can you discern at sea?
First Gentleman. Nothing at all: it is a highwrought flood; 765
I cannot, 'twixt the heaven and the main,
Descry a sail.
Montano. Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land;
A fuller blast ne'er shook our battlements:
If it hath ruffian'd so upon the sea, 770
What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them,
Can hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this?
Second Gentleman. A segregation of the Turkish fleet:
For do but stand upon the foaming shore,
The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds; 775
The wind-shaked surge, with high and monstrous mane,
seems to cast water on the burning bear,
And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole:
I never did like molestation view
On the enchafed flood. 780
Montano. If that the Turkish fleet
Be not enshelter'd and embay'd, they are drown'd:
It is impossible they bear it out.

This is my own material :) on the same subjcet as: , that is, tempestous seas:

FIRST GENERAL: I have here with me letters that are still wet,
Letters from spies that I have sent to the coastal
Cities that report seaquakes and maritime pandemonium,
Gigantic waves and earth tremors.
They say that the salty fertility
Of the sea has frown into a broth of hate, heartburn
And convulsions, that the mating of the waters and the wind
Have shouted a brood of titanic
Leviathans, riding mountains
Whose crests of foam bite the clouds,
As if they desired to disembowel them
To gain access to the orchard of candles of the stars
And drain them as if they were gleaming candies,
Sucking the honey and the silver sugar
Of light, silencing the fire and condemning
The whole world to eternal night. Against the coast
The typhoons have spurred their green steeds,
Colossal hippocampi roaring tsunamis.
The letters say that the elderly that in fisher
Villages and harbor cities
Have live for their entire lives have never seen
The sea throw himself with such bestial fury
Against the seashore, against the rocks, cliffs and beaches;
That never so many seaweeds, so much foam,
So much rheum and bile of the abysses
The waters have vomited thorough the coast.
It is as if the ocean desired
To devour all Japan, disintegrating
With salty saliva and foaming
Mastication the rocky vertebras
Of the archipelago where the sun has his nest.

SECOND GENERAL: I have heard similar news: panic
Spreads across many areas of the nation.
Nature and chaos have copulated:
Thus it is croaked across the villages
By old man, homeless, lunatics and prophets
(Those people that, in the art of injecting wisdom,
Contorted logic and illuminated insanity
With wild words that bite us
Are usually brothers). Some fanatics
Say that Japan, rotten and corrupted,
Like a giant corpse, will wreck
In the ocean, and our beloved earth
Will not see the crystalline cheeks,
The violet face and the smiling
Gaze of the serene skies ever again.
Temples, castles, towers and palaces,
The marmoreal beehive and the stony gardens
Of civilization will all dissolve
In slime, the heavenly vault and the winds –
A farrow of acrobatic foxes
Of breeze – in perpetual solitude, silence
And night will freeze,
And all of our clans, the empire, the sun
Will, in the desert country of the shells,
Anchor in collapse and oblivion.

(the original is in portuguese)

This one is also mine. It is about Snow:

Poem written about snow, but without using the word snow.


When the heavens are sick with the flu and cold fever
And the veins of the clouds vitrify;
When the spongy blood-cells of the mist crystallize in pearls
And the sick sun wraps himself in blankets of fog to fall sleep,
Then it is the time when the atmosphere dissolves itself into diamonds
And the sky is fragmented in flour of frost.
It is then that the trembling sowing of the winter skies start,
Covering the whole world with its nebulous feathers,
As if the angels, in the changes, peeled their wings.
The fields of wheat, the vales of rye are all covered;
Covered are the vineyards where the bunches of grapes
(Nurseries of ruby and spherical tadpoles and tinct embryos)
Become fat with sugar and tanned with tannin.
The forests of maples and oaks too,
The pine trees that transpire sap with breath of mint, the sweat of winter,
The mossy emperor’s with armies of foliage,
They are all dressed in spider-webs knitted with crystals.
Heavenly deposits of silver drizzle countless evanescent flowers
Over the dark sea that sparkle and hisses with salt
And belch foam in the eternal heartburn of the waves.
Frost rides smoothly, with thousands of small cotton fairies,
The backs of cattle, which are grouped together to share heat,
And in pinching sweaters of ice involve the bulls and calves.
Covered are the wooden huts of the shepherds,
The sheds and corrals that smell of iron and coal,
And further along, towards the own synthetic heart of civilization,
The concrete skeletons of the cities are also coated,
And the asphalt, the black arteries that feed the urban world,
Where the blood of mankind never ceases to flow
And the tingle of the cars never stops.
Covered are the homes of brick and the buildings of steel;
And the cars, streetlights, parks, churches;
Covered are the cemeteries where bones and memory sleep.
So begins the silent sprinkling of the winter skies,
The spectral rain of whiteness that drowns the entire surface of the universe
(The epidermis of the world, that looks to the heavens in vain questioning and confused admiration)
With the ghosts that the infinite horizons bleeds as blankets,
The glacial shroud that entombs life in an odorless desert of sugar.
And then, for a single grain of time in the flow of existence, being and nothingness embrace:
For this polar ceremony unites, for a brief moment, the living and the dead:
Living and dead share this albino sleep and ivory silence,
This reflex of nothingness and twin brother of emptiness,
This imitation of the complete absence of existence
That the immaculate shroud and winter mourning consecrated upon Earth.

More about the sea:

Miranda. If by your art, my dearest father, you have 85
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered
With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel, 90
Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,
Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd.
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere 95
It should the good ship so have swallow'd and
The fraughting souls within her.

[ARIEL sings]
Full fathom five thy father lies; 560
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange. 565
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell
[Burthen Ding-dong]
Hark! now I hear them,—Ding-dong, bell.

Nestor:
With due observance of thy godlike seat,
Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply
Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance
Lies the true proof of men: the sea being smooth,
How many shallow bauble boats dare sail
Upon her patient breast, making their way
With those of nobler bulk!
But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage
The gentle Thetis, and user behold
The strong-ribb'd bark through liquid mountains cut,
Bounding between the two moist elements,
Like Perseus' horse: where's then the saucy boat
Whose weak untimber'd sides but even now
Co-rivall'd greatness? Either to harbour fled,
Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so
Doth valour's show and valour's worth divide
In storms of fortune; for in her ray and brightness
The herd hath more annoyance by the breeze
Than by the tiger; but when the splitting wind
Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks,
And flies fled under shade, why, then the thing of courage
As roused with rage with rage doth sympathize,
And with an accent tuned in selfsame key
Retorts to chiding fortune.

Pericles. A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear;
No light, no fire: the unfriendly elements
Forgot thee utterly: nor have I time 1255
To give thee hallow'd to thy grave, but straight
Must cast thee, scarcely coffin'd, in the ooze;
Where, for a monument upon thy bones,
And e'er-remaining lamps, the belching whale
And humming water must o'erwhelm thy corpse, 1260
Lying with simple shells.

About woods and seasons

Titania. These are the forgeries of jealousy: 450
And never, since the middle summer's spring,
Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead,
By paved fountain or by rushy brook,
Or in the beached margent of the sea,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, 455
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea
Contagious fogs; which falling in the land
Have every pelting river made so proud 460
That they have overborne their continents:
The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain,
The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn
Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard;
The fold stands empty in the drowned field, 465
And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;
The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud,
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green
For lack of tread are undistinguishable:
The human mortals want their winter here; 470
No night is now with hymn or carol blest:
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound:
And thorough this distemperature we see 475
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Far in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,
And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set: the spring, the summer, 480
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which:
And this same progeny of evils comes
From our debate, from our dissension; 485
We are their parents and original.

And dolphins and the seas and flowers:

Oberon. Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove
Till I torment thee for this injury.
My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememberest
Since once I sat upon a promontory, 520
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath
That the rude sea grew civil at her song
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,
To hear the sea-maid's music. 525
Puck. I remember.
Oberon. That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm'd: a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal throned by the west, 530
And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon,
And the imperial votaress passed on, 535
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness. 540
Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew'd thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again 545
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

To Night


Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
And lo! Creation widened in man's view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind!
Why do we then shun Death with anxious strife?
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?

About tygers

The Tyger

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

About Autumn

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

There's sunshine in the heart of me,
My blood sings in the breeze;
The mountains are a part of me,
I'm fellow to the trees.
~Robert W. Service (1874–1958), "A Rolling Stone," 1912

I remember a hundred lovely lakes, and recall the fragrant breath of pine and fir and cedar and poplar trees. The trail has strung upon it, as upon a thread of silk, opalescent dawns and saffron sunsets. It has given me blessed release from care and worry and the troubled thinking of our modern day. It has been a return to the primitive and the peaceful. Whenever the pressure of our complex city life thins my blood and benumbs my brain, I seek relief in the trail; and when I hear the coyote wailing to the yellow dawn, my cares fall from me — I am happy. ~Hamlin Garland, McClure’s, February 1899

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more.
~George Gordon, Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church,
I keep it staying at Home –
With a bobolink for a Chorister,
And an Orchard, for a Dome.
~Emily Dickinson, c.1862


I know the thrill of the grasses when the rain pours over them.
I know the trembling of the leaves when the winds sweep through them.
I know what the white clover felt as it held a drop of dew pressed close in its beauteousness.
I know the quivering of the fragrant petals at the touch of the pollen-legged bees.
I know what the stream said to the dipping willows, and what the moon said to the sweet lavender.
I know what the stars said when they came stealthily down and crept fondly into the tops of the trees.
~Muriel Strode, “Creation Songs”

Any man that walks the mead
In bud, or blade, or bloom, may find
A meaning suited to his mind.
~Alfred Tennyson

I love to think of nature as an unlimited broadcasting station, through which God speaks to us every hour, if we will only tune in. ~George Washington Carver


Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. As age comes on, one source of enjoyment after another is closed, but Nature's sources never fail. ~John Muir, Our National Parks


God writes the gospel not in the Bible alone, but on trees and flowers and clouds and stars. ~Author unknown, commonly attributed to Martin Luther


I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright. ~Henry David Thoreau


...And this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our chearful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings...
~William Wordsworth, lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the banks of the Wye during a tour, 1798 July 13th


Look at the trees, look at the birds, look at the clouds, look at the stars... and if you have eyes you will be able to see that the whole existence is joyful. Everything is simply happy. Trees are happy for no reason; they are not going to become prime ministers or presidents and they are not going to become rich and they will never have any bank balance. Look at the flowers — for no reason. It is simply unbelievable how happy flowers are. ~Osho


Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair. ~Khalil Gibran
I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it.... People think pleasing God is all God care about. But any fool living in the world can see it always trying to please us back. ~Alice Walker, The Color Purple, 1982

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I want to shove
A cactus in you

Mont Blanc by Percy Bysshe Shelley

poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/45130

Of all sad words of tongue or pen
The saddest are these:
/pol/ was right again

Can i get some in spanish?

Came here to post this, what a pleasant poem.

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is the father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

Full fathom five thy father lies; 560
8564242
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change

Dude thats amazing, more plz
Into something rich and strange

dope