We are surrounded by nature and because of it we quite often tend to overlook its incredible beauty. There are miracles that happen every day around us, but most of the times we seem to take them for granted. Things that are seemingly ordinary hold many surprises if we care to look for them. In each tree, flower, a flap of butterfly wings, a piece of grass or fallen leaf, in every little detail, there is a piece of wonder that gets somehow overlooked. We get caught up in our everyday lives and we lose the ability to enjoy simple things, which can bring us all the happiness we need. Just by simply being, exploring nature's beauty and noticing its endless mysteries we can achieve the happy life that a lot of us strive for.
Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you: But when the leaves hang trembling, The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is passing by.
I’ve watched you now a full half-hour, Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! – not frozen seas More motionless! And then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my Sister’s flowers. Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We’ll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now.
God, when you chiseled a raindrop, How did you think of a stem, Bearing a lovely satin leaf To hold the tiny gem?
Tell me not here, it needs not saying, What tune the enchantress plays In aftermaths of soft September Or under blanching mays, For she and I were long acquainted And I knew all her ways.
For nature, heartless, witless nature, Will neither care nor know What stranger’s feet may find the meadow And trespass there and go, Nor ask amid the dews of morning If they are mine or no.
A. E. Housman
To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour
I had not thought of violets late, The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet In wistful April days, when lovers mate And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. The thought of violets meant florists' shops, And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; And garish lights, and mincing little fops And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines. So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams; The perfect loveliness that God has made,— Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. And now—unwittingly, you've made me dream Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam.
Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson
A Little Lane, the brook runs close beside And spangles in the sunshine while the fish glide swiftly by And hedges leafing with the green spring tide From out their greenery the old birds fly And chirp and whistle in the morning sun The pilewort glitters ‘neath the pale blue sky The little robin has its nest begun And grass green linnets round the bushes fly How Mild the Spring Comes in; the daisy buds Lift up their golden blossoms to the sky How lovely are the pingles and the woods Here a beetle runs; and there a fly Rests on the Arum leaf in bottle green And all the Spring in this Sweet lane is seen
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.