Ye have asked me whence I garner
A new burthen for my song;
Think ye that the river tires
As it gently flows along?
To the –t there are poems
—- —- —- – – —-
On the mountain here prater
And the pinions of the dove
There are poems in the tempest,
In the deserts awful hush;
In the charging warrior’s valor
And the timid maiden’s blush
In the little round, white pebbles
At the bottom of the brook,
And the fragile stem of clover
Growing in a barren nook.
There are poems in the mother’s
Watchful, idolizing ears;
In the prattler’s lilting accent
Nay, each fiber of its hair!
In the monster of the ocean,
In the insect of the land,
Every where the poet finds them
In the awful, good, and grand!
There are poems in June roses,
In December’s chilling breath,
In the drunkard’s causeless fury,
And the Christian’s peaceful death!
Hope, and Love; and Faith and Pity;
Planets, oceans, grains of sand’
All comprise one mighty poem
by God’s own right hand!
(Joseph Warren Watson)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Christianity Poems, Hope Poems, Mothers Poems, Literature Poems, Hair Poems, Poets Poems, Astronomy & Cosmology Poems, Insects PoemsBased on Keywords: comprise, prattler, prater, idolizing