Top 2024 English Poems on Nature, Kids, and Life

   Some folks will tell you the blues is a woman,

Some type of supernatural creature.

My mother would tell you, if she could,

About her life with my father,

A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman.

She would tell you about the choices

A young black woman faces.

Is falling in with some man

A deal with the devil

In blue terms, the tongue we use

When we don’t want nuance

To get in the way,

When we need to talk straight?

My mother chooses my father

After choosing a man

Who was, as we sing it,

Of no account.  

   When relatives came from out of town,

we would drive down to Blackbottom,

drive slowly down the congested main streets

trapped in the mesh of Saturday night.

Freshly escaped, black middle class,

we snickered, and were proud;

the louder the streets, the prouder.

We laughed at the bright clothes of a prostitute,

a man sitting on a curb with a bottle in his hand.

We smelled barbecue cooking in dented washtubs,

and our mouths watered.

As much as we wanted it we couldn’t take the chance.  

   Within, without the cosmos wide am I;

In joyful sweep I loose forth and draw back all.

A birthless, deathless Spirit that moves and is still

Ever abides within to hear my call.

I who create on earth my joys and doles

To fulfil my matchless quest in all my play,

I veil my face of truth with golden hues

And see the serpent night and python day.

A consciousness bliss I feel in each breath,

I am the self-amorous child of the Sun.

At will I break and build my symbol sheath

And freely enjoy the world’s unshadowed fun.    

   Hush thee and sleep, little one,

The feathers on thy board sway to and fro;

The shadows reach far downward in the water

The great old owl is waking, day will go.

Rest thee and fear not, little one,

Flitting fireflies come to light you on your way

To the fair land of dreams, while in the grasses

The happy cricket chirps his merry lay.

Tsa-du-meh watches always o’er her little one,

The great owl cannot harm you, slumber on

’Till the pale light comes shooting from the eastward,

And the twitter of the birds says night has gone.    

    Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.     

    A trusting little leaf of green,
A bold audacious frost;
A rendezvous, a kiss or two,
And youth for ever lost.
Ah, me!
The bitter, bitter cost.

A flaunting patch of vivid red,
That quivers in the sun;
A windy gust, a grave of dust,
The little race is run.
Ah, me!
Were that the only one.     

      Underneath my outside face
There’s a face that none can see.
A little less smiley,
A little less sure,
But a whole lot more like me   

    Some feelings are shallow, some feelings are deep.
Some make us smile, some make us weep.

Some we love, some we don’t.
Some we’ll savor, some we won’t.

Some grounding, some uplifting,
Some long-lasting, some constantly shifting.

No matter what feelings I’m feeling today,
I know tomorrow is only a day away.     

    In all chaotic beauty lies a wounded work of art.
Beautiful but torn, wreaking havoc on my heart.
Camouflaged by insecurities, blinded by it all.
I love the way you sit there and barely notice me at all.   

    I made myself a snowball
As perfect as could be.
I thought I’d keep it as a pet
And let it sleep with me.
I made it some pajamas
And a pillow for its head.
Then last night it ran away,
But first it wet the bed.   

    How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!    

    I’m a little teapot
Short and stout
Here is my handle (one hand on hip)
Here is my spout (other arm out straight)
When I get all steamed up
Hear me shout
“Tip me over
and pour me out!” (lean over toward spout)
I’m a clever teapot,
Yes, it’s true
Here let me show you
What I can do
I can change my handle
And my spout (switch arm positions)
Just tip me over and pour me out!     

      Once there was an elephant,
Who tried to use the telephant—
No! No! I mean an elephone
Who tried to use the telephone—
(Dear me! I am not certain quite
That even now I’ve got it right.)
Howe’er it was, he got his trunk
Entangled in the telephunk;
The more he tried to get it free,
The louder buzzed the telephee—
(I fear I’d better drop the song
Of elephop and telephong!)

    A million little diamonds
Twinkled on the trees;
And all the little children cried,
“A jewel, if you please!”
But while they held their hands outstretched
To catch the diamonds gay,
A million little sunbeams came
And stole them all away.   

    Nature’ is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.   

     The sight of the hills is a beauty

The bright moon is the sign of purity
The flow of the river is a murmuring music
The act of the sun is so philanthropic.
The rain of the clouds is very refreshing
The blowing of the wind is so soothing
The roaring of the ocean has its own reason
How charming is the changing of the season!   

     Alone in the woods I felt

The bitter hostility of the sky and the trees
Nature has taught her creatures to hate
Man that fusses and fumes
Unquiet man
As the sap rises in the trees
As the sap paints the trees a violent green
So rises the wrath of Nature’s creatures
At man
So paints the face of Nature a violent green.
Nature is sick at man
Sick at his fuss and fume
Sick at his agonies
Sick at his gaudy mind
That drives his body
Ever more quickly
More and more
In the wrong direction.   

    Life,
Full of nature;
The colours of nature,
The colours of love,
And, the natural flow of the laws of nature.
The face!
Faces;
The phase!
Phases;
The phrase!
Phrases;
With the muse of nature and the love of life,
However, everything on earth is for a reason.   

    nature is what we dont see
for instance the essence that pushes words out
for this poem fated for posterity
the birds that without fail
chirp at first light, morn breeze
the unseen clock working at the dot
nature is what we dont see
the nocturnal bloom, that folds itself
in the day, throws its fragrance
in the dead of night as lovers
hide in each others’ bossoms
below the soft glare of the moon
centimetre by centimetre
it has inched forward to exhibit its
full blown majestry to the world
Nature is what we dont see
the shadow play master tilting the earth.   

     Once upon a midnight dreary,
While I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious
Volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping,
Suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping,
Rapping at my chamber door.
“‘T is some visitor,” I muttered,
“Tapping at my chamber door
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember,
It was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember
Wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;
Vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow
Sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden
Whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.  

    I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said, “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that Colossal Wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.    

     Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.  

    Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!    

    I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”   

    Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.    

    Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.   

  All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love,
No hand to left or right
And emptiness above –

Know that you aren’t alone
The whole world shares your tears,
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years.     

  There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!     

      Bring me all of your dreams,
You dreamer,
Bring me all your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers
Of the world.