Amazing Nature Photos

Best Famous Environment Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Environment poems. This is a select list of the best famous Environment poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Environment poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of environment poems.

Search for the best famous Environment poems, articles about Environment poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Environment poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | Create an image from this poem

From The Testament of Beauty

 'Twas at that hour of beauty when the setting sun
squandereth his cloudy bed with rosy hues, to flood
his lov'd works as in turn he biddeth them Good-night;
and all the towers and temples and mansions of men
face him in bright farewell, ere they creep from their pomp
naked beneath the darkness;- while to mortal eyes
'tis given, ifso they close not of fatigue, nor strain
at lamplit tasks-'tis given, as for a royal boon
to beggarly outcasts in homeless vigil, to watch
where uncurtain's behind the great windows of space
Heav'n's jewel'd company circleth unapproachably-
'Twas at sunset that I, fleeing to hide my soul
in refuge of beauty from a mortal distress,
walk'd alone with the Muse in her garden of thought,
discoursing at liberty with the mazy dreams
that came wavering pertinaciously about me; as when
the small bats, issued from their hangings, flitter o'erhead
thru' the summer twilight, with thin cries to and fro
hunting in muffled flight atween the stars and flowers.
Then fell I in strange delusion, illusion strange to tell; for as a man who lyeth fast asleep in his bed may dream he waketh, and that he walketh upright pursuing some endeavour in full conscience-so 'twas with me; but contrawise; for being in truth awake methought I slept and dreamt; and in thatt dream methought I was telling a dream; nor telling was I as one who, truly awaked from a true sleep, thinketh to tell his dream to a friend, but for his scant remembrances findeth no token of speech-it was not so with me; for my tale was my dream and my dream the telling, and I remember wondring the while I told it how I told it so tellingly.
And yet now 'twould seem that Reason inveighed me with her old orderings; as once when she took thought to adjust theology, peopling the inane that vex'd her between God and man with a hierarchy of angels; like those asteroids wherewith she later fill'd the gap 'twixt Jove and Mars.
Verily by Beauty it is that we come as WISDOM, yet not by Reason at Beauty; and now with many words pleasing myself betimes I am fearing lest in the end I play the tedious orator who maundereth on for lack of heart to make an end of his nothings.
Wherefor as when a runner who hath run his round handeth his staff away, and is glad of his rest, here break I off, knowing the goal was not for me the while I ran on telling of what cannot be told.
For not the Muse herself can tell of Goddes love; which cometh to the child from the Mother's embrace, an Idea spacious as the starry firmament's inescapable infinity of radiant gaze, that fadeth only as it outpasseth mortal sight: and this direct contact is 't with eternities, this springtide miracle of the soul's nativity that oft hath set philosophers adrift in dream; which thing Christ taught, when he set up a little child to teach his first Apostles and to accuse their pride, saying, 'Unless ye shall receive it as a child, ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven.
' So thru'out all his young mental apprenticehood the child of very simplicity, and in the grace and beauteous attitude of infantine wonder, is apt to absorb Ideas in primal purity, and by the assimilation of thatt immortal food may build immortal life; but ever with the growth of understanding, as the sensible images are more and more corrupt, troubled by questioning thought, or with vainglory alloy'd, 'tis like enought the boy in prospect of his manhood wil hav cast to th' winds his Baptism with his Babyhood; nor might he escape the fall of Ev'ryman, did not a second call of nature's Love await him to confirm his Faith or to revoke him if he is whollylapsed therefrom.
And so mighty is this second vision, which cometh in puberty of body and adolescence of mind that, forgetting his Mother, he calleth it 'first Love'; for it mocketh at suasion or stubbornness of heart, as the oceantide of the omnipotent Pleasur of God, flushing all avenues of life, and unawares by thousandfold approach forestalling its full flood with divination of the secret contacts of Love,-- of faintest ecstasies aslumber in Nature's calm, like thought in a closed book, where some poet long since sang his throbbing passion to immortal sleep-with coy tenderness delicat as the shifting hues that sanctify the silent dawn with wonder-gleams, whose evanescence is the seal of their glory, consumed in self-becoming of eternity; til every moment as it flyeth, cryeth 'Seize! Seize me ere I die! I am the Life of Life.
' 'Tis thus by near approach to an eternal presence man's heart with divine furor kindled and possess'd falleth in blind surrender; and finding therewithal in fullest devotion the full reconcilement betwixt his animal and spiritual desires, such welcome hour of bliss standeth for certain pledge of happiness perdurable: and coud he sustain this great enthusiasm, then the unbounded promise would keep fulfilment; since the marriage of true minds is thatt once fabled garden, amidst of which was set the single Tree that bore such med'cinable fruit that if man ate thereof he should liv for ever.
Friendship is in loving rather than in being lov'd, which is its mutual benediction and recompense; and tho' this be, and tho' love is from lovers learn'd, it springeth none the less from the old essence of self.
No friendless man ('twas well said) can be truly himself; what a man looketh for in his friend and findeth, and loving self best, loveth better than himself, is his own better self, his live lovable idea, flowering by expansion in the loves of his life.
And in the nobility of our earthly friendships we hav al grades of attainment, and the best may claim perfection of kind; and so, since ther be many bonds other than breed (friendships of lesser motiv, found even in the brutes) and since our politick is based on actual association of living men, 'twil come that the spiritual idea of Friendship, the huge vastidity of its essence, is fritter'd away in observation of the usual habits of men; as happ'd with the great moralist, where his book saith that ther can be no friendship betwixt God and man because of their unlimited disparity.
From this dilemma of pagan thought, this poison of faith, Man-soul made glad escape in the worship of Christ; for his humanity is God's Personality, and communion with him is the life of the soul.
Of which living ideas (when in the struggle of thought harden'd by language they became symbols of faith) Reason builded her maze, wherefrom none should escape, wandering intent to map and learn her tortuous clews, chanting their clerkly creed to the high-echoing stones of their hand-fashion'd temple: but the Wind of heav'n bloweth where it listeth, and Christ yet walketh the earth, and talketh still as with those two disciples once on the road to Emmaus-where they walk and are sad; whose vision of him then was his victory over death, thatt resurrection which all his lovers should share, who in loving him had learn'd the Ethick of happiness; whereby they too should come where he was ascended to reign over men's hearts in the Kingdom of God.
Our happiest earthly comradeships hold a foretaste of the feast of salvation and by thatt virtue in them provoke desire beyond them to out-reach and surmount their humanity in some superhumanity and ultimat perfection: which, howe'ever 'tis found or strangeley imagin'd, answereth to the need of each and pulleth him instinctivly as to a final cause.
Thus unto all who hav found their high ideal in Christ, Christ is to them the essence discern'd or undeiscern'd of all their human friendships; and each lover of him and of his beauty must be as a bud on the Vine and hav participation in him; for Goddes love is unescapable as nature's environment, which if a man ignore or think to thrust it off he is the ill-natured fool that runneth blindly on death.
This Individualism is man's true Socialism.
This is the rife Idea whose spiritual beauty multiplieth in communion to transcendant might.
This is thatt excelent way whereon if we wil walk all things shall be added unto us-thatt Love which inspired the wayward Visionary in his doctrinal ode to the three christian Graces, the Church's first hymn and only deathless athanasian creed,--the which 'except a man believe he cannot be saved.
' This is the endearing bond whereby Christ's company yet holdeth together on the truth of his promise that he spake of his grat pity and trust in man's love, 'Lo, I am with you always ev'n to the end of the world.
' Truly the Soul returneth the body's loving where it hath won it.
.
.
and God so loveth the world.
.
.
and in the fellowship of the friendship of Christ God is seen as the very self-essence of love, Creator and mover of all as activ Lover of all, self-express'd in not-self, mind and body, mother and child, 'twixt lover and loved, God and man: but ONE ETERNAL in the love of Beauty and in the selfhood of Love.
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

From Far Dakota's Cañons

 FROM far Dakota’s cañons, 
Lands of the wild ravine, the dusky Sioux, the lonesome stretch, the silence, 
Haply to-day a mournful wail, haply a trumpet-note for heroes.
The battle-bulletin, The Indian ambuscade, the craft, the fatal environment, The cavalry companies fighting to the last in sternest heroism, In the midst of their little circle, with their slaughter’d horses for breastworks, The fall of Custer and all his officers and men.
Continues yet the old, old legend of our race, The loftiest of life upheld by death, The ancient banner perfectly maintain’d, O lesson opportune, O how I welcome thee! As sitting in dark days, Lone, sulky, through the time’s thick murk looking in vain for light, for hope, From unsuspected parts a fierce and momentary proof, (The sun there at the centre though conceal’d, Electric life forever at the centre,) Breaks forth a lightning flash.
Thou of the tawny flowing hair in battle, I erewhile saw, with erect head, pressing ever in front, bearing a bright sword in thy hand, Now ending well in death the splendid fever of thy deeds, (I bring no dirge for it or thee, I bring a glad triumphal sonnet,) Desperate and glorious, aye in defeat most desperate, most glorious, After thy many battles in which never yielding up a gun or a color Leaving behind thee a memory sweet to soldiers, Thou yieldest up thyself.
Written by Edward Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Like A Scarf

 The directions to the lunatic asylum were confusing,
more likely they were the random associations
and confused ramblings of a lunatic.
We arrived three hours late for lunch and the lunatics were stacked up on their shelves, quite neatly, I might add, giving credit where credit is due.
The orderlies were clearly very orderly, and they should receive all the credit that is their due.
When I asked one of the doctors for a corkscrew he produced one without a moment's hesitation.
And it was a corkscrew of the finest craftsmanship, very shiny and bright not unlike the doctor himself.
"We'll be conducting our picnic under the great oak beginning in just a few minutes, and if you'd care to join us we'd be most honored.
However, I understand you have your obligations and responsibilities, and if you would prefer to simply visit with us from time to time, between patients, our invitation is nothing if not flexible.
And, we shan't be the least slighted or offended in any way if, due to your heavy load, we are altogether deprived of the pleasure of exchanging a few anecdotes, regarding the mentally ill, depraved, diseased, the purely knavish, you in your bughouse, if you'll pardon my vernacular, O yes, and we in our crackbrain daily rounds, there are so many gone potty everywhere we roam, not to mention in one's own home, dead moonstruck.
Well, well, indeed we would have many notes to compare if you could find the time to join us after your injections.
" My invitation was spoken in the evenest tones, but midway though it I began to suspect I was addressing an imposter.
I returned the corkscrew in a nonthreatening manner.
What, for instance, I asked myself, would a doctor, a doctor of the mind, be doing with a cordscrew in his pocket? This was a very sick man, one might even say dangerous.
I began moving away cautiously, never taking my eyes off of him.
His right eyelid was twitching guiltily, or at least anxiously, and his smock flapping slightly in the wind.
Several members of our party were mingling with the nurses down by the duck pond, and my grip on the situation was loosening, the planks in my picnic platform were rotting.
I was thinking about the potato salad in an unstable environment.
A weeping spell was about to overtake me.
I was very close to howling and gnashing the gladiola.
I noticed the great calm of the clouds overhead.
And below, several nurses appeared to me in need of nursing.
The psychopaths were stirring from their naps, I should say, their postprandial slumbers.
They were lumbering through the pines like inordinately sad moose.
Who could eat liverwurst at a time like this? But, then again, what's a picnic without pathos? Lacking a way home, I adjusted the flap in my head and duck-walked down to the pond and into the pond and began gliding around in circles, quacking, quacking like a scarf.
Inside the belly of that image I began recycling like a sorry whim, sincerest regrets are always best.
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

Centenarian's Story The

 GIVE me your hand, old Revolutionary; 
The hill-top is nigh—but a few steps, (make room, gentlemen;) 
Up the path you have follow’d me well, spite of your hundred and extra years; 
You can walk, old man, though your eyes are almost done; 
Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have them serve me.
Rest, while I tell what the crowd around us means; On the plain below, recruits are drilling and exercising; There is the camp—one regiment departs to-morrow; Do you hear the officers giving the orders? Do you hear the clank of the muskets? Why, what comes over you now, old man? Why do you tremble, and clutch my hand so convulsively? The troops are but drilling—they are yet surrounded with smiles; Around them, at hand, the well-drest friends, and the women; While splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines down; Green the midsummer verdure, and fresh blows the dallying breeze, O’er proud and peaceful cities, and arm of the sea between.
But drill and parade are over—they march back to quarters; Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clapping! As wending, the crowds now part and disperse—but we, old man, Not for nothing have I brought you hither—we must remain; You to speak in your turn, and I to listen and tell.
THE CENTENARIAN.
When I clutch’d your hand, it was not with terror; But suddenly, pouring about me here, on every side, And below there where the boys were drilling, and up the slopes they ran, And where tents are pitch’d, and wherever you see, south and south-east and south-west, Over hills, across lowlands, and in the skirts of woods, And along the shores, in mire (now fill’d over), came again, and suddenly raged, As eighty-five years agone, no mere parade receiv’d with applause of friends, But a battle, which I took part in myself—aye, long ago as it is, I took part in it, Walking then this hill-top, this same ground.
Aye, this is the ground; My blind eyes, even as I speak, behold it re-peopled from graves; The years recede, pavements and stately houses disappear; Rude forts appear again, the old hoop’d guns are mounted; I see the lines of rais’d earth stretching from river to bay; I mark the vista of waters, I mark the uplands and slopes: Here we lay encamp’d—it was this time in summer also.
As I talk, I remember all—I remember the Declaration; It was read here—the whole army paraded—it was read to us here; By his staff surrounded, the General stood in the middle—he held up his unsheath’d sword, It glitter’d in the sun in full sight of the army.
’Twas a bold act then; The English war-ships had just arrived—the king had sent them from over the sea; We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor, And the transports, swarming with soldiers.
A few days more, and they landed—and then the battle.
Twenty thousand were brought against us, A veteran force, furnish’d with good artillery.
I tell not now the whole of the battle; But one brigade, early in the forenoon, order’d forward to engage the red-coats; Of that brigade I tell, and how steadily it march’d, And how long and how well it stood, confronting death.
Who do you think that was, marching steadily, sternly confronting death? It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong, Rais’d in Virginia and Maryland, and many of them known personally to the General.
Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus’ waters; Till of a sudden, unlook’d for, by defiles through the woods, gain’d at night, The British advancing, wedging in from the east, fiercely playing their guns, That brigade of the youngest was cut off, and at the enemy’s mercy.
The General watch’d them from this hill; They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment; Then drew close together, very compact, their flag flying in the middle; But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them! It sickens me yet, that slaughter! I saw the moisture gather in drops on the face of the General; I saw how he wrung his hands in anguish.
Meanwhile the British maneuver’d to draw us out for a pitch’d battle; But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch’d battle.
We fought the fight in detachments; Sallying forth, we fought at several points—but in each the luck was against us; Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push’d us back to the works on this hill; Till we turn’d, menacing, here, and then he left us.
That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong; Few return’d—nearly all remain in Brooklyn.
That, and here, my General’s first battle; No women looking on, nor sunshine to bask in—it did not conclude with applause; Nobody clapp’d hands here then.
But in darkness, in mist, on the ground, under a chill rain, Wearied that night we lay, foil’d and sullen; While scornfully laugh’d many an arrogant lord, off against us encamp’d, Quite within hearing, feasting, klinking wine-glasses together over their victory.
So, dull and damp, and another day; But the night of that, mist lifting, rain ceasing, Silent as a ghost, while they thought they were sure of him, my General retreated.
I saw him at the river-side, Down by the ferry, lit by torches, hastening the embarcation; My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were all pass’d over; And then, (it was just ere sunrise,) these eyes rested on him for the last time.
Every one else seem’d fill’d with gloom; Many no doubt thought of capitulation.
But when my General pass’d me, As he stood in his boat, and look’d toward the coming sun, I saw something different from capitulation.
TERMINUS.
Enough—the Centenarian’s story ends; The two, the past and present, have interchanged; I myself, as connecter, as chansonnier of a great future, am now speaking.
And is this the ground Washington trod? And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he cross’d, As resolute in defeat, as other generals in their proudest triumphs? It is well—a lesson like that, always comes good; I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward; I must preserve that look, as it beam’d on you, rivers of Brooklyn.
See! as the annual round returns, the phantoms return; It is the 27th of August, and the British have landed; The battle begins, and goes against us—behold! through the smoke, Washington’s face; The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march’d forth to intercept the enemy; They are cut off—murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them; Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the flag, Baptized that day in many a young man’s bloody wounds, In death, defeat, and sisters’, mothers’ tears.
Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are more valuable than your owners supposed; Ah, river! henceforth you will be illumin’d to me at sunrise with something besides the sun.
Encampments new! in the midst of you stands an encampment very old; Stands forever the camp of the dead brigade.
Written by James Tate | Create an image from this poem

Like A Scarf

 The directions to the lunatic asylum were confusing,
more likely they were the random associations
and confused ramblings of a lunatic.
We arrived three hours late for lunch and the lunatics were stacked up on their shelves, quite neatly, I might add, giving credit where credit is due.
The orderlies were clearly very orderly, and they should receive all the credit that is their due.
When I asked one of the doctors for a corkscrew he produced one without a moment's hesitation.
And it was a corkscrew of the finest craftsmanship, very shiny and bright not unlike the doctor himself.
"We'll be conducting our picnic under the great oak beginning in just a few minutes, and if you'd care to join us we'd be most honored.
However, I understand you have your obligations and responsibilities, and if you would prefer to simply visit with us from time to time, between patients, our invitation is nothing if not flexible.
And, we shan't be the least slighted or offended in any way if, due to your heavy load, we are altogether deprived of the pleasure of exchanging a few anecdotes, regarding the mentally ill, depraved, diseased, the purely knavish, you in your bughouse, if you'll pardon my vernacular, O yes, and we in our crackbrain daily rounds, there are so many gone potty everywhere we roam, not to mention in one's own home, dead moonstruck.
Well, well, indeed we would have many notes to compare if you could find the time to join us after your injections.
" My invitation was spoken in the evenest tones, but midway though it I began to suspect I was addressing an imposter.
I returned the corkscrew in a nonthreatening manner.
What, for instance, I asked myself, would a doctor, a doctor of the mind, be doing with a cordscrew in his pocket? This was a very sick man, one might even say dangerous.
I began moving away cautiously, never taking my eyes off of him.
His right eyelid was twitching guiltily, or at least anxiously, and his smock flapping slightly in the wind.
Several members of our party were mingling with the nurses down by the duck pond, and my grip on the situation was loosening, the planks in my picnic platform were rotting.
I was thinking about the potato salad in an unstable environment.
A weeping spell was about to overtake me.
I was very close to howling and gnashing the gladiola.
I noticed the great calm of the clouds overhead.
And below, several nurses appeared to me in need of nursing.
The psychopaths were stirring from their naps, I should say, their postprandial slumbers.
They were lumbering through the pines like inordinately sad moose.
Who could eat liverwurst at a time like this? But, then again, what's a picnic without pathos? Lacking a way home, I adjusted the flap in my head and duck-walked down to the pond and into the pond and began gliding around in circles, quacking, quacking like a scarf.
Inside the belly of that image I began recycling like a sorry whim, sincerest regrets are always best.
Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Theophilus

 By what serene malevolence of names 
Had you the gift of yours, Theophilus? 
Not even a smeared young Cyclops at his games 
Would have you long,—and you are one of us.
Told of your deeds I shudder for your dream And they, no doubt, are few and innocent.
Meanwhile, I marvel; for in you, it seems, Heredity outshines environment.
What lingering bit of Belial, unforeseen, Survives and amplifies itself in you? What manner of devilry has ever been That your obliquity may never do? Humility befits a father’s eyes, But not a friend of us would have him weep.
Admiring everything that lives and dies, Theophilus, we like you best asleep.
Sleep—sleep; and let us find another man To lend another name less hazardous: Caligula, maybe, or Caliban, Or Cain,—but surely not Theophilus.
Written by Tanwir Phool | Create an image from this poem

O My Native Land(English translation of Urdu poemAie Watan)

http://forum.
urdujahaan.
com/viewtopic.
php?f=96&t=4192 O my native land ! O my native land ! Far better than a garden Is your dust and sand What a dignified place you are ! Full of grace and beauty , as star You are protected and saved , indeed By the Mercy of God , near not far O my native land ! O my native land ! Far better than a garden Is your dust and sand Ever-flowing rivers and valleys Charming scene of butterflies and bees So much soothing is your environment Like a paradise , full of ease O my native land ! O my native land ! Far better than a garden Is your dust and sand Phool , the poet is praying always God bless you during nights and days Long live up to the Doomsday With the joyful refulgence and rays O my native land ! O my native land ! Far better than a garden Is your dust and sand Poet : Tanwir Phool (from his book "Naghmat-e-Pakistan" i:e "The Melodies of Pakistan").
This book has won Presidential Award from the Government of Pakistan.