Ode to Mother Earth and Other Poems

Mother Nature
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But the bull-voiced oak is battling now: The storm has seized him half-asleep, And round him the wild woodland throngs To hear the fury of his songs, The uproar of an outraged deep. He wakes to find a wrestling giant Trunk to trunk and limb to limb, And on his rooted force reliant He laughs and grasps the broadened giant, And twist and roll the Anakim; And multitudes, acclaiming to the cloud, Cry which is breaking, which is bowed.

Away, for the cymbals clash aloft In the circles of pine, on the moss-floor soft. The nymphs of the woodland are gathering there.

Ode To The Spirit Of The Earth In Autumn Poem by George Meredith - Poem Hunter

They huddle the leaves, and trample, and toss; They swing in the branches, they roll in the moss, They blow the seed on the air. Back to back they stand and blow The winged seed on the cradling air, A fountain of leaves over bosom and back. The pipe of the Faun comes on their track And the weltering alleys overflow With musical shrieks and wind-wedded hair. The riotous companies melt to a pair.

An ode to Mother Earth!!!

Bless them, mother of kindness! A star has nodded through The depths of the flying blue. Time only to plant the light Of a memory in the blindness.

But time to show me the sight Of my life thro' the curtain of night; Shining a moment, and mixed With the onward-hurrying stream, Whose pressure is darkness to me; Behind the curtain, fixed, Beams with endless beam That star on the changing sea. Great Mother Nature! And am I more than the mother who bore, Mock me not with thy harmony! Teach me to blot regrets, Great Mother!

In life, O keep me warm!

For, what is human grief? And what do men desire? Teach me to feel myself the tree, And not the withered leaf.

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Fixed am I and await the dark to-be And O, green bounteous Earth! Bacchante Mother! Into the breast that gives the rose, Shall I with shuddering fall? Earth, the mother of all, Moves on her stedfast way, Gathering, flinging, sowing. Absolute stunner. Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. Anyone familiar with a wooded snowy vista would certainly be reminded of this poem as I did after being introduced to the writings many years ago in school. Many years have passed since its Read complete story. I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

Winter is the king of showmen, Turning tree stumps into snow men And houses into birthday cakes And spreading sugar over lakes. THE steadfast coursing of the stars, The waves that ripple to the shore, The vigorous trees which year by year Spread upwards more and more;.

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A beautiful and inspired poem about a sometimes elusive quality that we all so much need to permeate our hearts. Maybe it has something to do with understanding and being understood and Teach me to blot regrets, Great Mother! In life, O keep me warm! For, what is human grief? And what do men desire?

George Meredith

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Teach me to feel myself the tree, And not the withered leaf. Fixed am I and await the dark to-be And O, green bounteous Earth! Bacchante Mother!

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Into the breast that gives the rose, Shall I with shuddering fall? Earth, the mother of all, Moves on her stedfast way, Gathering, flinging, sowing. Mortals, we live in her day, She in her children is growing. She can lead us, only she, Unto God's footstool, whither she reaches: Loved, enjoyed, her gifts must be, Reverenced the truths she teaches, Ere a man may hope that he Ever can attain the glee Of things without a destiny! She knows not loss: She feels but her need, Who the winged seed With the leaf doth toss. And may not men to this attain?

That the joy of motion, the rapture of being, Shall throw strong light when our season is fleeing, Nor quicken aged blood in vain, At the gates of the vault, on the verge of the plain? Life thoroughly lived is a fact in the brain, While eyes are left for seeing. Behold, in yon stripped Autumn, shivering grey, Earth knows no desolation.

She smells regeneration In the moist breath of decay. Prophetic of the coming joy and strife, Like the wild western war-chief sinking Calm to the end he eyes unblinking, Her voice is jubilant in ebbing life. He for his happy hunting-fields Forgets the droning chant, and yields His numbered breaths to exultation In the proud anticipation: Shouting the glories of his nation, Shouting the grandeur of his race, Shouting his own great deeds of daring: And when at last death grasps his face, And stiffened on the ground in peace He lies with all his painted terrors glaring; Hushed are the tribe to hear a threading cry: Not from the dead man; Not from the standers-by: The spirit of the red man Is welcomed by his fathers up on high.

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