65+ English Poems On Nature - Nature Poems For Kids

65+ English Poems On Nature - Nature Poems For Kids

Hey reader how are you.. if you are finding english poems on nature then you are at the right place..today you will get the famous english poems on nature

if you want nature poems for kids then also you can read this article..so without wasting any more time let me present you the english poems on nature

List of English Poems On Nature

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Winter Morning Poem

Winter is the king of showmen,

Turning tree stumps into snow men
And houses into birthday cakes
And spreading sugar over lakes.
Smooth and clean and frosty white,
The world looks good enough to bite.
That's the season to be young,
Catching snowflakes on your tongue!
Snow is snowy when it's snowing.
I'm sorry it's slushy when it's going.

The Brook

I come from haunts of coot and hern,

   I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
   To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
   Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorpes, a little town,
   And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow
   To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
   But I go on for ever.

I chatter over stony ways,
   In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
   I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
   By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
   With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
   To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
   But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,
   With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
   And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake
   Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
   Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow
   To join the brimming river
For men may come and men may go,
   But I go on for ever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
   I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
   That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
   Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
   Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
   In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
   I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow
   To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
   But I go on for ever.

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

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.   

My little horse must think it queer   
To stop without a farmhouse near   
Between the woods and frozen lake   
The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other sound’s the sweep   
Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.


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; 

The jewel forming in the mine, 
The snow that falls so soft and light, 
The rising and the setting sun, 
The growing glooms of night; 

All natural things both live and move 
In natural peace that is their own; 
Only in our disordered life 
Almost is she unknown. 

She is not rest, nor sleep, nor death; 
Order and motion ever stand 
To carry out her firm behests 
As guards at her right hand. 

And something of her living force 
Fashions the lips when Christians say 
To Him Whose strength sustains the world, 
"Give us Thy Peace, we pray!"

Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, 

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, 
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, 
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking. 

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide 
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; 
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, 
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. 

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, 
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, 
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.


Sweet tune in the midst of the moving circles 
Breaks forward, a serious and enchanting sound, 
A concordance whereof the world's green slopes 
Give yet the faintest reverberation; yet is there 
A music all over the place, and show sweet! 
All winged animals which sing in the midst of the backwoods profound 
Till the blossoms tune in with unfurled ringers; 
All breezes that mumble over summer grass, 
Or on the other hand twist the waves upon the pebbly shore; 
Mostly all sincere human voices rais'd 
In philanthropy and for the reason for truth, 
Blend together in one holy harmony, 
Furthermore, glide, a thankful incense, up to God. 

The Glory Of The Garden 

Our England is a patio nursery that is brimming with stately perspectives, 
Of fringes, beds and greenery and gardens and roads, 
With statues on the porches and peacocks swaggering by; 
In any case, the Glory of the Garden lies in undiscovered greatness under the surface the eye. 
For where the old thick shrubs develop, along the slim red divider, 
You'll discover the instrument and preparing sheds which are the core of all 
The chilly casings and the hot-houses, the manure pits and the tanks, 
The rollers, trucks, and channel funnels, with the hand trucks and the boards. 
What's more, there you'll see the plant specialists, the men and 'prentice young men 
Reprimanded to do as they are offered and do it without commotion ; 
For, with the exception of when seeds are planted and we yell to unnerve the winged creatures, 
The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words. 
Furthermore, some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose, 
Furthermore, some are not really fit to trust with whatever develops ; 
In any case, they can roll and trim the gardens and filter the sand and soil, 
For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come. 
Our England is a patio nursery, and such gardens are not made 
By singing, "Goodness, how lovely," and sitting in the shade 
While preferred men over we go out and begin their working lives 
At grubbing weeds from rock ways with broken supper blades. 
There's not a couple of legs so slight, there's not a head so thick, 
There's not a hand so frail and white, nor yet a heart so wiped out 
In any case, it can secure some needful position that is crying to be finished, 
For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth each one. 
At that point look for your activity with appreciation and work till further requests, 
In the event that it's solitary netting strawberries or murdering slugs on fringes; 
Furthermore, when your stopping boards throbbing and your hands start to solidify, 
You will get yourself an accomplice In the Glory of the Garden. 
Gracious, Adam was a cultivator, and God who made him sees 
That a large portion of an appropriate cultivator's work is done upon his knees, 
So when your work is done, you can wash your hands and implore 
For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away! 
What's more, the Glory of the Garden it will never pass away! 

God The Artist 

God, when you thought of a pine tree, 
How could you think about a star? 
How could you long for the Milky Way 
To control us from a remote place. 
How could you think about a spotless darker pool 
Where bits of shadows are? 
God, when you thought of a spider web, 
How could you consider dew? 
How could you know a creepy crawly's home 
Had shingles splendid and new? 
How could you know the human society 
Would love them as they do? 
God, when you designed a flying creature melody, 
Flung on a silver string, 
How could you know the euphoria 
That precious stone call would bring? 
How could you think about a foaming throat 
Also, a dear dotted wing? 
God, when you etched a raindrop, 
How could you think about a stem, 
Bearing a dazzling glossy silk leaf 
To hold the minor pearl? 
How could you know a million drops 
Would deck the morning's fix? 
For what reason did you mate the twilight night 
With the honeysuckle vines? 
How could you realize Madeira sprout 
Refined delighted wines? 
How could you weave the velvet plate 
Where tangled fragrances are? 
God, when you thought of a pine tree, 
How could you think about a star? 

The Way Through The Woods 

They shut the street through the forested areas 
Seventy years back. 
Climate and downpour have fixed it once more, 
Also, presently you could never know 
There was previously a way through the forested areas 
Before they planted the trees: 
It is underneath the coppice and heath, 
Also, the slight anemones. 
Just the manager sees 
That, where the ring-dove agonizes 
What's more, the badgers move calm, 
There was at one time a street through the forested areas. 
However, on the off chance that you enter the forested areas 
Of a mid year evening late, 
At the point when the night-air cools on the trout-ring'd pools 
Where the otter whistles his mate 
(They dread not men in the forested areas 
Since they see so few), 
You will hear the beat of a pony's feet 
What's more, the wash of a skirt in the dew, 
Consistently loping through 
The cloudy isolations, 
As if they consummately knew 
The old lost street through the forested areas ... 
However, there is no street through the forested areas. 

The Seed-Shop 

HERE in a calm and dusty room they lie, 
Blurred as disintegrated stone and moving sand, 
Desolate as cinders, withered, scentless, dry - 
Glades and greenery enclosures going through my hand. 
Dead that will animate at the voice of spring, 
Sleepers to wake underneath June's whirlwind kiss; 
Despite the fact that flying creatures disregard, unremembering, 
What's more, no honey bee find here roses that were his. 
In this dark colored husk a dale of hawthorn dreams; 
A cedar in this tight cell is pushed 
That will drink profoundly at a century's streams; 
These lilies will make summer on my residue. 
Here in their protected and basic place of death, 
Fixed in their shells, a million roses jump; 
Here I can mix a patio nursery with my breath, 
Also, in my grasp a woodland lies snoozing.

Nothing Gold Can Stay 

Nature's first green is gold, 

Her hardest tone to hold. 

Her initial leaf's a blossom; 

Be that as it may, just so 60 minutes. 

At that point leaf dies down to leaf. 

So Eden sank to misery, 

So sunrise goes down to day. 

Nothing gold can remain. 

There Is Another Sky 

There is another sky, 

Ever quiet and reasonable, 

What's more, there is another daylight, 

In spite of the fact that it be haziness there; 

Don't worry about it blurred backwoods, Austin, 

Don't worry about it quiet fields - 

Here is somewhat woodland, 

Whose leaf is ever green; 

Here is a more splendid patio nursery, 

Where not an ice has been; 

In its unfading blossoms 

I hear the brilliant honey bee murmur: 

Prithee, my sibling, 

Into my greenery enclosure come! 


Period of fogs and smooth productivity, 

Close chest companion of the developing sun; 

Plotting with him how to stack and favor 

With organic product the vines that round the cover eves run; 

To twist with apples the moss'd bungalow trees, 

What's more, fill all natural product with readiness profoundly; 

To swell the gourd, and full the hazel shells 

With a sweet portion; to set growing more, 

What's more, still progressively, later blooms for the honey bees, 

Until they figure warm days will never stop, 

For summer has o'er-brimm'd their sticky cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft in the midst of thy store? 

Now and then whoever looks for abroad may discover 

Thee sitting indiscreet on a storehouse floor, 

Thy hair delicate lifted by the winnowing wind; 

Or on the other hand on a half-reap'd wrinkle sound sleeping, 

Drows'd with the smoke of poppies, while thy snare 

Extras the following swath and all its twined blooms: 

Furthermore, here and there like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Consistent thy loaded head over a rivulet; 

Or then again by a cyder-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings step by step. 

Where are the tunes of spring? Ay, Where are they? 

Consider not them, thou hast thy music as well,- - 

While banished mists sprout the delicate kicking the bucket day, 

Furthermore, contact the stubble-fields with blushing tint; 

At that point in a wailful choir the little gnats grieve 

Among the waterway sallows, borne up high 

Or then again sinking as the light wind lives or kicks the bucket; 

What's more, full-developed sheep noisy bleat from uneven bourn; 

Fence crickets sing; and now with treble delicate 

The red-bosom whistles from a greenery enclosure croft; 

What's more, gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 

My November Guest 

My Sorrow, when she's here with me, 

Thinks these dim long periods of fall downpour 

Are wonderful as days can be; 

She adores the exposed, the wilted tree; 

She strolls the soaked field path. 

Her pleasure won't let me remain. 

She talks and I am fain to list: 

She's happy the winged creatures are left, 

She's happy her basic worsted dim 

Is silver now with sticking fog. 

The ruined, betrayed trees, 

The blurred earth, the substantial sky, 

The wonders she so really observes, 

She supposes I have no eye for these, 

Furthermore, vexes me for motivation behind why. 

Not yesterday I figured out how to know 

The adoration for uncovered November days 

Prior to the happening to the snow, 

Be that as it may, it were vain to advise her thus, 

Also, they are better for her applause. 

The Tyger

Tyger! Tyger! consuming brilliant 

In the woods of the night, 

What undying hand or eye 

Could outline thy frightful symmetry? 

In what far off deeps or skies 

Consumed the flame of thine eyes? 

On what wings might he venture yearn for? 

What the hand dare catch the flame? 

Furthermore, what bear, and what workmanship, 

Could bend the ligaments of thy heart? 

What's more, when thy heart started to thump, 

What fear hand? what's more, what fear feet? 

What the mallet? what the chain? 

In what heater was thy cerebrum? 

What the iron block? what fear handle 

Dare its fatal dread fasten? 

At the point when the stars tossed down their lances, 

What's more, watered paradise with their tears, 

Did he grin his work to see? 

Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

Tyger! Tyger! consuming splendid 

In the backwoods of the night, 

What undying hand or eye, 

Dare outline thy dreadful symmetry? 

A Minor Bird 

I have wished a flying creature would take off, 

Furthermore, not sing by my home throughout the day; 

Have applauded at him from the entryway 

When it appeared as though I could bear no more 

The blame should incompletely have been in me. 

The flying creature was not to fault for his key. 

Also, obviously there must be something incorrectly 

In needing to quiet any tune. 

A Light Exists In Spring 

A Light exists in Spring 

Not present on the Year 

At some other period - 

At the point when March is barely here 

A Color stands abroad 

On Solitary Fields 

That Science can't surpass 

Be that as it may, Human Nature feels. 

It holds up upon the Lawn, 

It demonstrates the uttermost Tree 

Upon the uttermost Slope you know 

It nearly addresses you. 

At that point as Horizons step 

Or then again Noons report away 

Without the Formula of sound 

It passes and we remain - 

A nature of misfortune 

Influencing our Content 

As Trade had all of a sudden infringed 

Upon a Sacrament. 

The Fish 

I got a gigantic fish 

also, held him close to the pontoon 

half out of water, with my snare 

quick in an edge of his mouth. 

He didn't battle. 

He hadn't battled by any stretch of the imagination. 

He hung a snorting weight, 

battered and admired 

furthermore, simple. All over 

his darker skin hung in strips 

like antiquated backdrop, 

what's more, its example of darker brown 

resembled backdrop: 

shapes like out and out roses 

recolored and lost through age. 

He was spotted with barnacles, 

fine rosettes of lime, 

what's more, invaded 

with small white ocean lice, 

what's more, underneath a few 

clothes of green weed hung down. 

While his gills were taking in 

the horrendous oxygen 

— the unnerving gills, 

new and fresh with blood, 

that can cut so seriously— 

I thought of the coarse white substance 

pressed in like plumes, 

the huge bones and the little bones, 

the sensational reds and blacks 

of his sparkly guts, 

also, the pink swim-bladder 

like a major peony. 

I investigated his eyes 

which were far bigger than mine 

be that as it may, shallower, and yellowed, 

the irises sponsored and stuffed 

with discolored tinfoil 

seen through the focal points 

of old scratched isinglass. 

They moved a bit, yet not 

to restore my gaze. 

— It was increasingly similar to the tipping 

of an article toward the light. 

I appreciated his dreary face, 

the instrument of his jaw, 

and after that I saw 

that from his lower lip 

— on the off chance that you could consider it a lip— 

terrible, wet, and weaponlike, 

draped five old bits of fish-line, 

or on the other hand four and a wire chief 

with the swivel still connected, 

with all their five major snares 

developed immovably in his mouth. 

A green line, frayed toward the end 

where he broke it, two heavier lines, 

what's more, a fine dark string 

still creased from the strain and snap 

when it split and he escaped. 

Like awards with their strips 

frayed and faltering, 

a five-haired facial hair of shrewdness 

trailing from his throbbing jaw. 

I gazed and gazed 

what's more, triumph topped off 

the little leased pontoon, 

from the pool of bilge 

where oil had spread a rainbow 

around the rusted motor 

to the bailer rusted orange, 

the sun-split defeats, 

the oarlocks on their strings, 

the gunnels—until everything 

was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! 

What's more, I let the fish go. 

A Bird Came Down The Walk 

A winged creature descended the walk: 

He didn't realize I saw; 

He bit a point worm in equal parts 

What's more, ate the individual, crude. 

And after that he drank a dew 

From a helpful grass, 

And after that jumped sidewise to the divider 

To let a scarab pass. 

He looked with fast eyes 

That rushed all abroad,- - 

They looked like unnerved dabs, I thought; 

He mixed his velvet head 

Like one in peril; wary, 

I offered him a piece, 

Also, he unrolled his plumes 

Also, paddled him milder home 

Than paddles separate the sea, 

Unreasonably silver for a crease, 

Or on the other hand butterflies, off banks of early afternoon, 

Jump, plashless, as they swim. 

Appeal to What Earth 

Appeal to what earth does this sweet virus have a place, 

Which asks no obligations and no still, small voice? 

The moon goes up by jumps, her bright way 

In some far summer stratum of the sky, 

While stars with their virus sparkle bedot her way. 

The fields glimmer somewhat back upon the sky, 

Furthermore, far and close upon the leafless bushes 

The snow dust still transmits a silver light. 

Under the support, where float banks are their screen, 

The titmice currently seek after their wool dreams, 

As frequently in the sweltering summer evenings 

The honey bee doth drop sleeping in the bloom glass, 

When evening overwhelms him with his heap. 

By the brooksides, in the still, friendly night, 

The more daring drifter may hear 

The gems shoot and structure, and winter moderate

Increment his standard by gentlest summer implies 

A Narrow Fellow In The Grass 

A thin individual in the grass 

Every so often rides; 

You may have met him,- - did you not, 

His notice unexpected is. 

The grass separates likewise with a brush, 

A spotted shaft is seen; 

And afterward it closes at your feet 

What's more, opens further on. 

He prefers a boggy section of land, 

A story unreasonably cool for corn. 

However when a youngster, and shoeless, 

I more than once, at morn, 

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash 

Unbraiding in the sun,- - 

When, stooping to verify it, 

It wrinkled, and was gone. 

A few of nature's kin 

I know, and they know me; 

I feel for them a vehicle 

Of sincerity; 

In any case, never met this individual, 

Visited or alone

Without a more tightly relaxing

Furthermore, zero t the bone.


Whatever reason, April, do you return once more?
Magnificence isn't sufficient.
You can never again calm me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I recognize what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I watch
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is great.
It is evident that there is no passing.
Yet, what does that connote?
Not just under ground are the minds of men
Eaten by parasites.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
A vacant container, a trip of uncarpeted stairs.
It isn't sufficient that yearly, down this slope,
Comes like a simpleton, jabbering and strewing blossoms

The Humblebee 

Husky napping humblebee!
Where thou craftsmanship is clime for me.
Give them a chance to cruise for Porto Rique,
Far away warms through oceans to look for,
I will pursue thee alone,
Thou vivified torrid zone!
Crisscross steerer, desert-cheerer,
Give me a chance to pursue thy waving lines,
Keep me closer, me thy listener,
Singing over bushes and vines.
Creepy crawly admirer of the sun,
Delight of thy domain!
Mariner of the climate,
Swimmer through the floods of air,
Voyager of light and early afternoon,
Luxurious of June,
Hold up I prithee, till I come
Inside ear-shot of thy murmur,- -
All without is suffering.
At the point when the south wind, in May days,
With a net of sparkling murkiness,
Silvers the skyline divider,
Furthermore, with delicate quality contacting all,
Tints the human face
With a shade of sentiment,
Furthermore, implanting unpretentious warms,
Turns the turf to violets,
Thou in radiant isolations,
Meanderer of the underwoods,
The green quietness dost uproot,
With thy smooth windy bass.
Sweltering midsummer's petted hag,
Sweet to me thy lazy tune,
Recounting incalculable radiant hours,
Long days, and strong banks of blooms,
Of bays of sweetness without bound
In Indian unsettled areas found,
Of Syrian harmony, godlike relaxation,
Firmest cheer and fledgling like delight.
Nothing upsetting or unclean,
Hath my creepy crawly never observed,
Yet, violets and bilberry chimes,
Maple sap and daffodels,
Grass with green banner half-pole high,
Succory to coordinate the sky,
Columbine with horn of nectar,
Scented plant, and agrimony,
Clover, get fly, adders-tongue,
Also, brier-roses abided among;
All next to was obscure waste,
Everything was picture as he passed.
More shrewd far than human soothsayer,
Yellow-breeched rationalist!
Seeing just what is reasonable,
Tasting just what is sweet,
Thou dost mock at destiny and care,
Leave the debris and take the wheat,
At the point when the furious north-western impact
Cools ocean and land up until this point and quick,
Thou as of now slumberest profound,- -
Hardship and need thou canst out-rest,- -
Need and hardship which torment us,
Thy rest makes ludicrous


The fog comes
on little feline feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on quiet hindquarters
and after that proceeds onward.

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