- Published on
Earth Voices
Earth’s voice for gossip
is bees.
For all her sighing she
uses trees.
North wind is best to make
a groan,
Wind and old houses or wind
alone.
Earth whispers low with a
snowflake
For a quiet smile she likes
a lake
Roaring she leaves
to hurricanes.
Weeping is done with
winter rains.
Murmuring’s a task for
a summer sea.
For singing she sometimes
uses me.
By Jessamyn West
Mary Jessamyn West McPherson was born on 18 July 1902 near North Vernon, Indiana, United States of America. She was Quaker by faith. She became a writer of short stories and novels. She is known for her novel, “The Friendly Persuasion” (1945), among other works. Mary Jessamyn West McPherson passed on at 81 years of age on 23 February 1984 in Napa, California, United States of America.
Earth’s voice for gossip
is bees.
For all her sighing she
uses trees.
North wind is best to make
a groan,
Wind and old houses or wind
alone.
Earth whispers low with a
snowflake
For a quiet smile she likes
a lake
Roaring she leaves
to hurricanes.
Weeping is done with
winter rains.
Murmuring’s a task for
a summer sea.
For singing she sometimes
uses me.
By Jessamyn West
Mary Jessamyn West McPherson was born on 18 July 1902 near North Vernon, Indiana, United States of America. She was Quaker by faith. She became a writer of short stories and novels. She is known for her novel, “The Friendly Persuasion” (1945), among other works. Mary Jessamyn West McPherson passed on at 81 years of age on 23 February 1984 in Napa, California, United States of America.
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Various Artists - Click Or Tap On Arrow To Play Or Replay Music Or Audio Or Refresh This Page - Nature
- Published on
Perseverance
The pine that stands upon the wooded mountain
Gains not in stature in a single day;
The noble river springs not from one fountain,
But gathers up its strength along its way.
The aloe hears for years the autumn’s dirges,
Before it shows its blossoms to the skies;
The coral reef, that breaks the ocean’s surges,
Through centuries of growth alone can rise.
Thus, through her works, Dame Nature offers ever
For our acceptance one persistent thought:
’Tis but by patient, sturdy, brave endeavor,
The greatest, best, and grandest things are wrought.
By Author Unknown
The pine that stands upon the wooded mountain
Gains not in stature in a single day;
The noble river springs not from one fountain,
But gathers up its strength along its way.
The aloe hears for years the autumn’s dirges,
Before it shows its blossoms to the skies;
The coral reef, that breaks the ocean’s surges,
Through centuries of growth alone can rise.
Thus, through her works, Dame Nature offers ever
For our acceptance one persistent thought:
’Tis but by patient, sturdy, brave endeavor,
The greatest, best, and grandest things are wrought.
By Author Unknown
- Published on
The Forget Me Not
There is a sweet, a lovely flower,
Tinged deep with faith’s unchanging hue,
Pure as the ether in its hour
Of loveliest and serenest blue.
The streamlet’s gentle side it seeks,
The silent fount, the shaded grot;
And sweetly to the heart it speaks
Forget-me-not, forget-me-not.
See the flowers, how they grow;
Hear the winds that gently blow.
Bird and insect, flower and tree,
Know they must not idle be;
Each has something it must do
Little children, so must you.
Oh, this sweet and lovely flower
Forget-me-not, forget-me-not.
By Author Unknown
There is a sweet, a lovely flower,
Tinged deep with faith’s unchanging hue,
Pure as the ether in its hour
Of loveliest and serenest blue.
The streamlet’s gentle side it seeks,
The silent fount, the shaded grot;
And sweetly to the heart it speaks
Forget-me-not, forget-me-not.
See the flowers, how they grow;
Hear the winds that gently blow.
Bird and insect, flower and tree,
Know they must not idle be;
Each has something it must do
Little children, so must you.
Oh, this sweet and lovely flower
Forget-me-not, forget-me-not.
By Author Unknown
- Published on
The Star
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are,
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is set,
When the grass with dew is wet,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveler in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark;
He could not see which way to go
If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye
Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and shiny spark,
Lights the traveler in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
By Jane Taylor: as published in “Rhymes for the Nursery” (1806), a compilation of poems by Jane Taylor and her sister Ann Gilbert (maiden name Taylor)
Jane Taylor was born on 23 September 1783 in London, England, as one among an extensive literary family. She became an essayist, a playwright, a short story writer, a novelist, and a poet. Jane Taylor worked as an editor and writer for “Youth’s Magazine.” She is known as the author of the song, “The Star” (1806), also known as, “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” and the poem, “The Violet,” among other works. Jane Taylor passed on at 40 years of age on 13 April 1824.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are,
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is set,
When the grass with dew is wet,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveler in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark;
He could not see which way to go
If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye
Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and shiny spark,
Lights the traveler in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
By Jane Taylor: as published in “Rhymes for the Nursery” (1806), a compilation of poems by Jane Taylor and her sister Ann Gilbert (maiden name Taylor)
Jane Taylor was born on 23 September 1783 in London, England, as one among an extensive literary family. She became an essayist, a playwright, a short story writer, a novelist, and a poet. Jane Taylor worked as an editor and writer for “Youth’s Magazine.” She is known as the author of the song, “The Star” (1806), also known as, “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” and the poem, “The Violet,” among other works. Jane Taylor passed on at 40 years of age on 13 April 1824.
- Published on
Look Up
I saw a little muddy stream
That turned to fairest blue,
Because the surface caught the gleam
Of heaven’s azure blue.
And so this life, whate’er it be,
Might turn to Heaven fair,
If we would lift our eyes and see
The beauty everywhere.
By Author Unknown
I saw a little muddy stream
That turned to fairest blue,
Because the surface caught the gleam
Of heaven’s azure blue.
And so this life, whate’er it be,
Might turn to Heaven fair,
If we would lift our eyes and see
The beauty everywhere.
By Author Unknown
- Published on
Help One Another
“Help one another,” the snowflakes said,
As they cuddled down in their fleecy bed;
“One of us here would not be felt;
One of us here would quickly melt;
But I’ll help you, and you help me,
And then what a big white drift we’ll see!”
“Help one another,” the maple spray
Said to its fellow-leaves one day;
“The sun would wither here alone,
Long enough ere the day is gone;
But I’ll help you, and you help me,
And then what a splendid shade there’ll be!”
“Help one another,” the dewdrop cried,
Seeing another drop close to its side;
“This warm south breeze would dry me away,
And I should be gone ere noon to-day;
But I’ll help you, and you help me,
And we’ll make a brook and run to the sea.”
“Help one another,” a grain of sand
Said to another grain just at hand;
“The wind may carry me over the sea,
And then, O! what will become of me?
But come, my brother, give me your hand;
We’ll build a mountain, and there we’ll stand.”
And so the snowflakes grew to drifts,
The grains of sand to mountains,
The leaves became a pleasant shade,
And dewdrops fed the fountains.
By George F. Hunting
“Help one another,” the snowflakes said,
As they cuddled down in their fleecy bed;
“One of us here would not be felt;
One of us here would quickly melt;
But I’ll help you, and you help me,
And then what a big white drift we’ll see!”
“Help one another,” the maple spray
Said to its fellow-leaves one day;
“The sun would wither here alone,
Long enough ere the day is gone;
But I’ll help you, and you help me,
And then what a splendid shade there’ll be!”
“Help one another,” the dewdrop cried,
Seeing another drop close to its side;
“This warm south breeze would dry me away,
And I should be gone ere noon to-day;
But I’ll help you, and you help me,
And we’ll make a brook and run to the sea.”
“Help one another,” a grain of sand
Said to another grain just at hand;
“The wind may carry me over the sea,
And then, O! what will become of me?
But come, my brother, give me your hand;
We’ll build a mountain, and there we’ll stand.”
And so the snowflakes grew to drifts,
The grains of sand to mountains,
The leaves became a pleasant shade,
And dewdrops fed the fountains.
By George F. Hunting
- Published on
Open Your Eyes
Open your eye that you may see
The beauty that around you lies,
The misty loveliness of the dawn,
The glowing colors of the skies;
The Child’s bright eager eyes of blue,
The gnarled and wrinkled face of age,
The bird with crimson on his wing
Whose spirit never knew a cage;
The roadsides blooming goldenrod
So brave through summer’s wind and heat,
The brook that rushes to the sea
With courage that naught may defeat.
Open your eyes that you may see
The wonder that around you lies;
It will enrich your every day
And make you glad and kind and wise.
by Emma Boge Whisenand
Open your eye that you may see
The beauty that around you lies,
The misty loveliness of the dawn,
The glowing colors of the skies;
The Child’s bright eager eyes of blue,
The gnarled and wrinkled face of age,
The bird with crimson on his wing
Whose spirit never knew a cage;
The roadsides blooming goldenrod
So brave through summer’s wind and heat,
The brook that rushes to the sea
With courage that naught may defeat.
Open your eyes that you may see
The wonder that around you lies;
It will enrich your every day
And make you glad and kind and wise.
by Emma Boge Whisenand
- Published on
Heart to Heart
A little trouble came my way,
It made a really gloomy day
And I believed it came to stay.
And then I told it to the trees,
The singing birds, the humming bees,
And all such gladsome things as these.
A babbling brook gave listening ear,
A robin hushed his song to hear,
And whispering breeze hovered near.
When thus my secret I let fall,
The trouble somehow grew so small
That I could find it not at all.
by Lydia Alice Sheets: as published in Monta H. Crane and Selma Shepherd Downey, compilers: “Sunshine and Shadows” (1973), ‘Book II - Scattered Sunshine, Beauty and Nature,’ page 153
A little trouble came my way,
It made a really gloomy day
And I believed it came to stay.
And then I told it to the trees,
The singing birds, the humming bees,
And all such gladsome things as these.
A babbling brook gave listening ear,
A robin hushed his song to hear,
And whispering breeze hovered near.
When thus my secret I let fall,
The trouble somehow grew so small
That I could find it not at all.
by Lydia Alice Sheets: as published in Monta H. Crane and Selma Shepherd Downey, compilers: “Sunshine and Shadows” (1973), ‘Book II - Scattered Sunshine, Beauty and Nature,’ page 153
- Published on
The Pebble and the Acorn
“I am a Pebble! and yield to none!”
Were swelling words of a tiny stone,
“Nor time nor season can alter me;
I am abiding, while ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain;
And the tender dew has sought to melt,
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
There’s none that can tell about my birth,
For I’m as old as the big, round earth.
The children of men arise, and pass
Out of the world, like the blades of grass;
And many a foot on me has trod,
That’s gone from sight, and under the sod!
I am a Pebble! but who art thou,
Rattling along from the restless bough?”
The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abashed and mute;
She never before had been so near
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere;
And she felt for a time at a loss to know
How to answer a thing so coarse and low.
But to give reproof of a nobler sort
Than the angry look, or the keen retort.
At length she said, in a gentle tone,
“Since it has happened that I am thrown
From the lighter element, where I grew,
Down to another, so hard and new,
And beside a personage so august,
Abased, I will cover my head with dust,
And quickly retire from the sight of one
Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun,
Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel
Has ever subdued, or made to feel!”
And soon, in the earth, she sunk away
From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay.
But it was not long ere the soil was broke
By the peering head of an infant oak!
And, as it arose and its branches spread,
The Pebble looked up, and wondering said,
“A modest Acorn! never to tell
What was enclosed in its simple shell;
That the pride of the forest was folded up
In the narrow space of its little cup!
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
Which proves that nothing could hide her worth!
And oh! how many will tread on me,
To come and admire the beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering towards the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I!
Useless and vain, a cumberer here,
I have been idling from year to year.
But never, from this, shall a vaunting word
From the humbled Pebble again be heard,
Till something without me or within,
Shall show the purpose for which I’ve been!”
The Pebble its vow could not forget,
And it lies there wrapt in silence yet.
by Hannah Flagg Gould
Hannah Flagg Gould was born on 3 September 1789 in Lancaster, Massachusetts, United States of America. She became a poet. Hannah Flagg Gould passed on at 76 years of age on 5 September 1865 in Newburyport, Massachusetts, United States of America.
“I am a Pebble! and yield to none!”
Were swelling words of a tiny stone,
“Nor time nor season can alter me;
I am abiding, while ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain;
And the tender dew has sought to melt,
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
There’s none that can tell about my birth,
For I’m as old as the big, round earth.
The children of men arise, and pass
Out of the world, like the blades of grass;
And many a foot on me has trod,
That’s gone from sight, and under the sod!
I am a Pebble! but who art thou,
Rattling along from the restless bough?”
The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abashed and mute;
She never before had been so near
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere;
And she felt for a time at a loss to know
How to answer a thing so coarse and low.
But to give reproof of a nobler sort
Than the angry look, or the keen retort.
At length she said, in a gentle tone,
“Since it has happened that I am thrown
From the lighter element, where I grew,
Down to another, so hard and new,
And beside a personage so august,
Abased, I will cover my head with dust,
And quickly retire from the sight of one
Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun,
Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel
Has ever subdued, or made to feel!”
And soon, in the earth, she sunk away
From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay.
But it was not long ere the soil was broke
By the peering head of an infant oak!
And, as it arose and its branches spread,
The Pebble looked up, and wondering said,
“A modest Acorn! never to tell
What was enclosed in its simple shell;
That the pride of the forest was folded up
In the narrow space of its little cup!
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
Which proves that nothing could hide her worth!
And oh! how many will tread on me,
To come and admire the beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering towards the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I!
Useless and vain, a cumberer here,
I have been idling from year to year.
But never, from this, shall a vaunting word
From the humbled Pebble again be heard,
Till something without me or within,
Shall show the purpose for which I’ve been!”
The Pebble its vow could not forget,
And it lies there wrapt in silence yet.
by Hannah Flagg Gould
Hannah Flagg Gould was born on 3 September 1789 in Lancaster, Massachusetts, United States of America. She became a poet. Hannah Flagg Gould passed on at 76 years of age on 5 September 1865 in Newburyport, Massachusetts, United States of America.
- Published on
Were I the Sun
I’d always shine on holidays
Were I the Sun;
On sleepy heads I’d never gaze,
But focus all my morning rays
On busy folks of hustling ways,
Were I the Sun.
I would not melt a sledding snow,
Were I the Sun;
Nor spoil the ice where skaters go,
Nor help those useless weeds to grow,
But hurry melons on you know,
Were I the Sun.
I’d warm the swimming pool just right,
Were I the Sun;
On school-days I would hide my light.
The Fourth I’d always give you bright,
Nor set so soon on Christmas night,
Were I the Sun.
I would not heed such paltry toys,
Were I the Sun -
Such work as grown up men employs;
But I would favor solld joys -
In short I’d run the world for boys,
Were I the Sun!
by Author Unknown
I’d always shine on holidays
Were I the Sun;
On sleepy heads I’d never gaze,
But focus all my morning rays
On busy folks of hustling ways,
Were I the Sun.
I would not melt a sledding snow,
Were I the Sun;
Nor spoil the ice where skaters go,
Nor help those useless weeds to grow,
But hurry melons on you know,
Were I the Sun.
I’d warm the swimming pool just right,
Were I the Sun;
On school-days I would hide my light.
The Fourth I’d always give you bright,
Nor set so soon on Christmas night,
Were I the Sun.
I would not heed such paltry toys,
Were I the Sun -
Such work as grown up men employs;
But I would favor solld joys -
In short I’d run the world for boys,
Were I the Sun!
by Author Unknown
