God, when you thought of a pine tree, How did you think of a star? How did you dream of the Milky Way To guide us from afar. How did you think of a clean brown pool Where flecks of shadows are?
God, when you thought of a cobweb, How did you think of dew? How did you know a spider's house Had shingles bright and new? How did you know the human folk Would love them like they do?
God, when you patterned a bird song, Flung on a silver string, How did you know the ecstasy That crystal call would bring? How did you think of a bubbling throat And a darling speckled wing?
God, when you chiseled a raindrop, How did you think of a stem, Bearing a lovely satin leaf To hold the tiny gem? How did you know a million drops Would deck the morning's hem?
Why did you mate the moonlit night With the honeysuckle vines? How did you know Madeira bloom Distilled ecstatic wines? How did you weave the velvet disk Where tangled perfumes are? God, when you thought of a pine tree, How did you think of a star?Nature Quote
- by John Keats58
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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