The Poems of nature Are quite common, the natural world has been one of the recurring themes in poetry. It is often the primary theme in every age and in every country.
Poets like to describe the natural world; Its varied landscapes, the changing seasons and the phenomena that surround it, among others, have been an important part of the history of poetry.
Here is a list of these poems by renowned authors:
1- The infinite, by Pablo Neruda
Do you see these hands? They have measured
The earth, have separated
Minerals and cereals,
Have made peace and war,
Have knocked down the distances
Of all the seas and rivers,
And yet
How much do you travel
To you, small,
Grain of wheat, lark,
Not enough to cover you,
They get tired reaching
The twin doves
That rest or fly in your chest,
Travel the distances of your legs,
They roll in the light of your waist.
For me you are more treasured
Of immensity that the sea and its clusters
And you are white and blue and long as
The land in the vintage.
In that territory,
From your feet to your forehead,
Walking, walking, walking,
I'll spend my life.
2- Nature, Gentle Mother of Emily Dickinson
She is the Gentleest Mother -Nature.
No Child is irritated-
The weaker or more voluntary-
Your Soft-
Hear the traveler-in the Forest-
On the hill
Hairless Bird or Rampant Squirrel-
Contents-
On a Summer Afternoon-
In His House-when the Sun-
Grateful is His Talk-
Your company-
Your Voice in the Hall turns on
The prayer of the Flower-
Shy prayer
From the tiny cricket-
When all the Sons sleep-
She just walks away
To turn on Your Lamps-
Suspended in Heaven-
With love-
And infinite care-
His golden finger on his lip-
Order-Everywhere-He Silence
3- The Dark Thrush, by Thomas Hardy
"Suddenly a voice rose up among the sparsely peeled sticks / in a passionate song of the afternoon / of boundless joy; / an old thrush, weak, thin and small / with feathers bristling with the wind Decided to cast his soul / in the growing darkness. / What small motive for the carols / of an ecstatic sound, / written about earthly things, / far or near, around, / that I could think he was shaking / with his singing Of"happy Christmas Eve"/ some blessed hope that he knew / that I did not know.
4- The road through the forest by Rudyard Kipling
They closed the path that crossed the forest
Seventy years ago.
The bad weather, the rain, have erased it.
And now nobody would say that once,
Before the trees were even rooted,
There was a road here, crossing the forest.
It is under the heath and anemones,
The bushes cover it;
And only the old guard
Knows where, nesting torcaces
And the badger stirs, there was a way
That crossed the forest.
But if you go there
In summer, and late, when the air
Of the night cools in the ponds
Where trout and otters swim
They call their partners without fearing men
Which they have never seen,
You'll hear-if you go there- the trot of a horse
And the skirt of a skirt on the wet leaves
Paving the way
By the darkness, how
If they knew, they,
The road through the forest,
Now that that path no longer exists
That crossed the forest.
5- Poetry and Nature, by Kathleen Raine
To put in writing everything I contain at this moment
Would empty the desert through an hourglass,
The sea through a clepsydra,
Drop by drop and grain by grain
To the impenetrable, immeasurable waters and mutable sands released.
Because the days and the nights of the earth crumble about me
The tides and the sand cross me,
And I only have two hands and a heart to keep the desert
And to the sea.
If it escapes and I avoid, what can I contain?
The tides creep me
The desert slips under my feet.
6- At autumn, by John Keats
Season of mists and fecundas seasons,
An intimate collaborator of a mature sun,
Conspiring with him how to fill fruit
And bless the vines that run through the fences,
Buck the garden trees with apples
And fill all fruit of deep maturity;
The pumpkin fans and fattening hazelnuts
With a sweet interior; You make late shoots
And numerous flowers until the bees
Hot days believe endless
Because the summer of its slimy cells overflows.
Who has not seen you in the midst of your goods?
Whoever looks for you has to find you.
Sitting carelessly in a barn
Fondled the hair sweetly,
Or in a furrow not mowed in deep sleep
Sucking poppies, while your sickle respects
The next sheaf of intertwined flowers;
Or stand firm as a gleaner
Loaded his head across a stream,
Or next to a winery with patient gaze
You see the last cider oozing hour after hour.
Where in your songs are spring?
Think no more of them than of your own music.
When the day between clouds faints blossoming
And dyes the stubble of a pink hue,
What a pity when mosquitoes complain
In the willows of the river, rising, descending
As the light wind revives or dies;
And the lambs shall scatter in the hills,
The crickets in the hedge sing, and the robin
With sweet voice of tiple whistle in some orchard
And they trample on the skies of swallows.
7- A smaller bird, by Robert Frost
I wished a bird would go away
With its monotonous song from the threshold of my house.
I clapped my hands from the door.
When I thought I could not take it anymore.
Partly it must have been my fault.
The evil was not of the bird with its music.
And there must be some mistake
In wanting to silence any song.
8- A mouse, by Robert Burns
To a field mouse, taking it out of its burrow with a plow
Small, silky, fearful beast cornered What great panic there is in your chest! You do not have to run so fast, With so much fuss I do not want to run after you With a homicidal hoe. I really feel that man's dominion It has broken the pact that Nature establishes, And justify the wrong opinion That makes you look stunned Poor fellow born of the earth. And equally deadly. I do not doubt, however, that it is possible for you to steal What does it matter? Poor creature, you have to live! An occasional spike of a sheaf Is little pretense. I'll settle for the rest And I will not miss it! From your little house, also in ruins, Its fragile walls the winds scatter And there is, now, to build a new, Freshly cut grass! And the miserable winds of December are falling, As severe as they are alive! You who saw the fields become naked and barren And how the hard winter was on top And here, warm, safe from the storm You thought that you would stay Until the cruel peasant passed And took away thy refuge. That little pile of leaves and scrubs It had cost you a few exhausting nibbles Now they have left you, after all your effort Homeless To withstand the dripping winter downpours And the cold dew of the morning.9- Ode to the apple (extract), by Pablo Neruda
To you, apple,
I want
To celebrate
Filling me
with your name
mouth,
Eating you
Always
You are new to nothing
Or anyone,
always
Freshly fallen
Of Paradise:
Full
And pure
Flushed cheek
Of the aurora!
10- A wind came, by Emily Dickinson
A Wind came as a Clarin-
Between the Grass shuddered
And a Green Chill on the Burning
He fell so ominous
We close Windows and Doors
To a kind of Emerald-
The electric Mocasín del Hado
It happened at that precise moment-
In a Strange Atropello of Panting Trees
The fences fled
And the Casas in the Rivers ran
Those who lived-that Day-
Crazy in the tower the bell
The winged news said-
How much can come and come and-yet-the World remains!
References
- Thomas Hardy's Thrush (2002. Retrieved from abc.com
- The green side of Pablo Neruda (2014). Recovered from veoverde.com
- The 12 poems of Emily Dickinson. Recovered from revistadelauniversidad.unam.mx
- Poems by Rudyard Kipling. Retrieved from books.google.co.ve
- Poetry and nature. Recovered from fronterad.com
- Poetry: John Keats: Fall. Recovered from aquileana.wordpress.com
- Robert Frost: The path not followed. Retrieved from talkpoesia.com.ar
- Robert Burns (2011). Recovered from davidzuker.com
- Nature in Poems. Retrieved from poems.org.