The Darling Of Nature

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  • Nature

    The Darling Of Nature

    Smell I can,
    In the air, yes I can.
    NO,it is not love,
    though it is none but the love.
    The breeze so cool, feel it for the dove.
    The gust so fresh, I wish not to Move.

    Here,I hear her.
    She is the mistress of the seas,
    the darling of the trees.
    She sways in this glen,
    she dances in the heaven.
    And here I am, listening to her in my den.
    My body of dust, so aspires her touch,
    Oh!on my mind, her Midas' touch.
    She brings the joy,and sorrow may too.
    All she powerful!the Artemis of the sky,
    arrows of drops in her fluffy robes do lie
    and the swords of thunder,may they not be by.

    Oh yes!it is She,She it is,
    I can smell,I can feel,yes it is..

    May she engulf Mother,
    She who comes from me none other.
    May she rid the evils,and clean without lather.
    or rather, or rather....

    I wish,wish do I that those who get laved,may really be laved.

    Oh how it is;if,wish ,may,
    So powerful words are these,that anyone can use.
    May no one have to use these from now on though.

    May my darling, rinse the earth,
    though thoruoghly this time.
    Let everyone romance in the first rains.
    Let ther be no hatred, afterall,
    how can hate perish in one, when nature is itsef in flirting!!!

    Oh yes she is,
    she is the darling of the natur/
    She come awaited,
    she stays lovingly.
    May she come again, and this time longingly.

    Born in the oceans,she rose her head
    from the rivers and the lakes,
    up,up,up in the heaven,to jin in the flakes.
    Robed in wood, white and pures,
    weaving in her folds,drops and thunders.  
    Clean so she is, that may she rinse the unders.
    Wandering in the realm above,
    floating as doves,
    thirsting us groves.
    Stopped by none, she fleets,
    Her fleet of nimbus,
    down below a sheep bleats,
    wishing her wool to match hers.

    The tiller wishes her to stay, but no
    she remains to sway.
    Free and glee, till not so Merry May.
    Pass do days and comes the June.
    And as in Nature's ancient Rune.
    My darling is robbed,
    Robbed of her freedom,
    forced to shed her 'dom.
    And down come her tears to blossom.

    It is hertears being enjoyed.
    So queer, it is her wrath for which she is toyed.
    As ut us her wrath that is the cure.

    Oh yes she is .....
    She is the darling of Nature.
    May she come as she comes and,
    may she stay as she stays,
    for she is my darling,
    She is the mistress of the seas,
    the lover of trees, and spring.
    Yes, she is, the Nature's Darling.

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

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