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by Anne Bradstreet

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All things within this fading world hath end,

Adversity doth still our joyes attend;

No ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet,

But with death's parting blow is sure to meet.

The sentence past is most irrevocable,

A common thing, yet oh inevitable.

How soon, my Dear, death may my steps attend,

How soon't may be thy Lot to lose thy friend,

We are both ignorant, yet love bids me

These farewell lines to recommend to thee,

That when that knot's untied that made us one,

I may seem thine, who in effect am none.

And if I see not half my dayes that's due,

What nature would, God grant to yours and you;

The many faults that well you know I have

Let be interr'd in my oblivious grave;

If any worth or virtue were in me,

Let that live freshly in thy memory

And when thou feel'st no grief, as I no harms,

Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms.

And when thy loss shall be repaid with gains

Look to my little babes, my dear remains.

And if thou love thyself, or loved'st me,

These o protect from step Dames injury.

And if chance to thine eyes shall bring this verse,

With some sad sighs honour my absent Herse;

And kiss this paper for thy loves dear sake,

Who with salt tears this last Farewel did take.

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Before the Birth of One of Her Children by Anne Bradstreet

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All things within this fading world hath end, Adversity doth still our joyes attend; No ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet, But with death's parting blow is sure to meet. The sentence past is most irrevocable, A common thing, yet oh inevitable.

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His Excellency General Washington - Celestial choir! enthron'd in realms of light

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Rhodora ( Rhododendron canadense) is the most northerly of native American azaleas, growing from Labrador south to Pennsylvania and New Jersey, near streams and in "damp nooks." Rhodora bears purplish pink flowers in April and May before the leaves appear. Emerson's poem cannot fail to echo in the hearts of laborers in the gardens of rhododendrons and azaleas.

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The Chambered Nautilus by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

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This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,

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The Joy of Church Fellowship Rightfully Attended

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The Joy of Church Fellowship Rightfully Attended

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The Joy Of Church Fellowship Rightly Attended

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Philip Freneau - On the Religion of Nature

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The power, that gives with liberal hand / The blessings man enjoys, while here, / And scatters through a smiling land / Abundant products of the year; / That power of nature, ever

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Longfellow: The Slave's Dream, Poems on Slavery

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Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gulf of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days.

I hid in the solar glory,
I am dumb in the pealing song,
I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.

No numbers have counted my tallies,
No tribes my house can fill,
I sit by the shining Fount of Life,
And pour the deluge still;

And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers,
My wreath shall nothing miss.

And many a thousand summers
My apples ripened well,
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell.

I wrote the past in characters
Of rock and fire the scroll,
The building in the coral sea,
The planting of the coal.

And thefts from satellites and rings
And broken stars I drew,
And out of spent and aged things
I formed the world anew;

What time the gods kept carnival,
Tricked out in star and flower,
And in cramp elf and saurian forms
They swathed their too much power.

Time and Thought were my surveyors,
They laid their courses well,
They boiled the sea, and baked the layers
Or granite, marl, and shell.

But he, the man-child glorious,--
Where tarries he the while?
The rainbow shines his harbinger,
The sunset gleams his smile.

My boreal lights leap upward,
Forthright my planets roll,
And still the man-child is not born,
The summit of the whole.

Must time and tide forever run?
Will never my winds go sleep in the west?
Will never my wheels which whirl the sun
And satellites have rest?

Too much of donning and doffing,
Too slow the rainbow fades,
I weary of my robe of snow,
My leaves and my cascades;

I tire of globes and races,
Too long the game is played;
What without him is summer's pomp,
Or winter's frozen shade?

I travail in pain for him,
My creatures travail and wait;
His couriers come by squadrons,
He comes not to the gate.

Twice I have moulded an image,
And thrice outstretched my hand,
Made one of day, and one of night,
And one of the salt sea-sand.

One in a Judaean manger,
And one by Avon stream,
One over against the mouths of Nile,
And one in the Academe.

I moulded kings and saviours,
And bards o'er kings to rule;--
But fell the starry influence short,
The cup was never full.

Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
And mix the bowl again;
Seethe, fate! the ancient elements,
Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.

Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,
The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones, and countless days.

No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
My oldest force is good as new,
And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.

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Song Of Nature Poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson - Poem Hunter

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Mine are the night and morning,The pits of air, the gulf of space,The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,The innumerable days. I hid in the solar glory,I am dumb in the pealing song,I rest on the pitch of the torrent,In slumber I am strong.