Our Evening Hike in Poems

Uphill by Christina Rossetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

Could it Have Been a Shadow? by Monica Shannon

What ran under the rosebush?

What ran under the stone?

Could it have been a shadow,

Running away alone?

Maybe a fariy's shadow,

Slipping away at dawn

To guard a gleaming pot of gold

For a busy leprechaun.

A Bird by Emily Dickinson

A bird came down the walk:

He did not know I saw;

He bit an angleworm in halves

And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank the dew

From a convenient grass,

And then hopped sidewise to the wall

To let a beetle pass.

Snail by Langston Hughes

Little snail,

Dreaming you go.

Weather and rose

Is all you know.

Weather and rose

Is all you see,

Drinking

The dewdrop's

Mystery.

Robin Egg Springtime by Don Iannone
So much to delight about in springtime—

Fresh green buds on trees, crocuses, daffodils, tulips

But nothing matches a pastel blue robin egg

To ignite spring feelings within me.

The Song of the Toad by John Burroughs

Have you heard the blinking toad

Sing his solo by the river

When April nights are soft and warm,

And spring is all a-quiver?

If there are jewels in his head

His wits they often muddle

For his mate will lay her eggs

Into a drying puddle.

Tiny Seed by Cathy Drinkwater

Tiny seed, here in my hand,

Where do you hide your plant?

I've tried to find your roots and leaves,

But somehow I just can't.

It must be magic, I believe,

That a tree so big and tall

Could sprout up from this tiny seed

So very, very small.

Be Different to Trees by Mary Carolyn Davies

The talking oak

To the ancients spoke.

But any tree

Will talk to me.

What truths I know

I garnered so.

But those who want to talk and tell,

And those who will not listeners be,

Will never hear a syllable

From out the lips of any tree.

Cycle by Langston Hughes

So many little flowers

Drop their tiny heads

But newer buds come to bloom

In their place instead.

I miss the little flowers

That have gone away.

But the newly budding blossoms

Are equally gay.

From Nature with Love!

I'd Love to be A Fairy's Child by Robert Graves

Children born of fairy stock

Never need for shirt or frock,

Never want for food or fire,

Always get their heart's desire:

Jingle pockets full of gold,

Marry when they're seven years old.

Every fariy child may keep

Two strong ponies and ten sheep;

All have houses, each his own,

Built of brick or granite stone;

They live on cherries, they run wild-

I'd love to ba a Fariy's child.