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POEMS OF NATURE.
"Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works
Nature's voice is sweet
POEMS OF NATURE,
The World is too much with us. THE world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : Little we see in nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers ; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ;' Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
Ministrations of Nature.
Healest thy wandering and distemper'd child !
Flowers, the Stars of Earth.
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.
As astrologers and seers of eld;
Like the burning stars which they beheld.
God hath written in those stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets under us
Stands the revelation of his love. Bright and glorious is that revelation
Written all over this great world of ours ; Making evident our own creation,
In these stars of earth—these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same universal being,
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sun-light shining;
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Buds that open only to decay;
Flaunting gaily in the golden light;
Tender wishes, blossoming at night! These in flowers and men are more than seeming ;
Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing,
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;
Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,
And in Summer's green-emblazon' field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield; Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequester'd pools in woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink; Not alone in her vast dome of glory,
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But on old Cathedrals, high and hoary,
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant;
In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present,
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; In all places, then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things. And with child-like credulous affection
We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land.
Are waving o'er the pool,
So sweetly and so cool.
The primrose hides below,