Woods poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best woods poems ever written. Read all poems about woods.
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.
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
Anyone here had a go at themselves
for a laugh? Anyone opened their wrists
with a blade in the bath? Those in the dark
at the back, listen hard. Those at the front
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Smokey the Bear heads
into the autumn woods
with a red can of gasoline
and a box of wooden matches.
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
They leave their homes
And follow their fate
Through fields and trails
'Arcturus' is his other name—
I'd rather call him 'Star.'
All nature has a feeling: woods, fields, brooks
Are life eternal: and in silence they
Speak happiness beyond the reach of books;
There's nothing mortal in them; their decay
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.--Once again
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music - hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The love of field and coppice
Of green and shaded lanes,
See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!
Descending Gods have found Elysium here.
In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd,
And chaste Diana haunts the forest shade.
Dim vales- and shadowy floods-
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over!
When music sounds, gone is the earth I know,
And all her lovely things even lovelier grow;
Her flowers in vision flame, her forest trees
Lift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasies.
After the funeral, mule praises, brays,
Windshake of sailshaped ears, muffle-toed tap
Tap happily of one peg in the thick
Grave's foot, blinds down the lids, the teeth in black,
The sun shines bright, with its heavenly beams, shining all on the woods heavenly
Woods, then confess their love for showers.
Showers, that fall from the heaven's above, that vow they keep so strong, and still till the infinity to the eternity, keeping this, as their wills.
I listen to the Leila's song,
I listen fondly, all time long.
I sit in silence, deep inside the woods,
As Leila's melodious voice echoes in the woods,
If you go down to the woods today,
You're in for a big surprise.
If you go down to the woods today,
You'll meet your grisly demise.
Without woods tigers scarce can live,
Sans tigers woods cannot survive,
Tigers then save a wood,
Woods work for tigers' good,
The gold colour, sky put on woods, its
tree branches and leaves
On dust of grey road that lead to Nilje,
On wings of red- wing bird
Your Olfactory Bulb will get use to you smelling good with smell goods
Of Michel Germain Sexual Paris Tender along with smell goods of Amber and Cedarwood.
I love woody woods smell goods.
The caged bird was in a golden cage,
The bird from the woods in the forest,
A PEACEFUL PLACE
A place of serenity and harmony,
A place of being one with nature.
Girls are coming out of the woods,
wrapped in cloaks and hoods,
carrying iron bars and candles
and a multitude of scars, collected
on acres of premature grass and city
buses, in temples and bars. Girls
are coming out of the woods
with panties tied around their lips,
making such a noise, it's impossible
to hear. Is the world speaking too?
Is it really asking, What does it mean
to give someone a proper resting? Girls are
coming out of the woods, lifting
their broken legs high, leaking secrets
from unfastened thighs, all the lies
whispered by strangers and swimming
coaches, and uncles, especially uncles,
who said spreading would be light
and easy, who put bullets in their chests
and fed their pretty faces to fire,
who sucked the mud clean
off their ribs, and decorated
their coffins with brier. Girls are coming
out of the woods, clearing the ground
to scatter their stories. Even those girls
found naked in ditches and wells,
those forgotten in neglected attics,
and buried in river beds like sediments
from a different century. They've crawled
their way out from behind curtains
of childhood, the silver-pink weight
of their bodies pushing against water,
against the sad, feathered tarnish
of remembrance. Girls are coming out
of the woods the way birds arrive
at morning windows - pecking
and humming, until all you can hear
is the smash of their miniscule hearts
against glass, the bright desperation
of sound - bashing, disappearing.
Girls are coming out of the woods.
They're coming. They're coming.
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