Category: Nature

When skies are blue, and Nature sings,
My spirit soars on carefree wings;
When skies are gray, and Nature bores,
My spirit falls asleep–and snores.

The most of us are tuned a bit
More with the skies than we admit.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 15, 1946

Every nutty male squirrel
Is glad his Mrs. is a girrel.

by Ray Romine Sunday, October 13, 1946

The wild bright moon emerges from the mist
And adds a color to the vivid autumn scene:
The day with all its reds and yellows turns a little green
On seeing night’s abnormal shadows silver-kissed.

The Screech Owl in the wood across the way
Sounds angry. He, disgusted with things bright,
And never having seen the darkness in this light,
Is sure he slept the clock around, and it is day.

Then it dawns on him slowly, and, shamefaced,
He turns his owlish scowling onto man,
That perverse daylight-loving dolt who can
Sit in his home and let illumination waste.

by Ray Romine Monday, October 15, 1951

There is an odor present in green things,
From lowly moss that creeps across the stone,
Soil building as it goes; in iris clone
Before it flowers; from the vine that rings
Old houses, old itself how many springs?
In rare spiced form, I get it with the moan
Of bleak wind through the evergreen, that lone
Step-child of winter to which summer clings.

Beneath the eye of science, this wild smell
May yield to analyzing, be the pet
Of major projects, start industries, quell
Worse odors, create millionaires, and yet
On country lanes it sends me, in its spell,
As close to Heaven as a man can get.

by Ray Romine Sunday, November 25, 1951

This perfect summer day was made for me,
I’m sure of it. That blue, blue spread
Was placed conveniently, that lazy I
Might write my dreams upon it, with a sea
Of cloud-chalk fantasy. This friendly tree
Above me has a worried mien, and I
Know somehow, without ever asking why,
That I am her responsibility.

by Ray Romine Saturday, January 13, 1951

I have a good friend
Who is covered with shame
Should she meet with a bird
And not know its full name.

And a plant in a pasture,
To me but a weed,
Is a miracle to her
From seedling to seed.

A “worm” on a stem
She must capture to see,
Through its series of changes,
Which moth it will be.

So her whole zest in living
Beside such as I
Is a thousand times greater
From How, What and Why

I once found her amusing,
But not any more,
For she is the sane one,
And I am the bore.

by Ray Romine Monday, January 26, 1953

I thrill to dawns,
And sunsets sway me;
But crowds and parties
Only fray me.

I love the sun
And tree-warped shade;
But hate the lighting
Man has made.

Nature’s puzzles
Never bore me,
But business trivia
Really floor me.

I like a bird’s
Clear melody;
But opera
Is not for me.

The show of stars
Thrills me at night;
But stage and night-club
Bring on fright.

Who loves a free
Untrammelled state
Is just a million
Years too late.

by Ray Romine Saturday, March 30, 1946

A caterpillar on the walk
Is heading for a flower-stalk;
And though his bobbing head is down,
I sense his forehead wears a frown.
You’d hurry, too, like anything,
If you’d a Butterfly-date with spring!

by Ray Romine Thursday, October 24, 1946

I drift today, and ponder upon
Impressions my senses bring .
For these are the days when even a lawn
Is alive with the scent of spring!

by Ray Romine Thursday, May 1, 1947

This fallen leaf caught in my hand,
Far more than I can understand,
Insists I ask in accents loud
How I can hold myself too proud
To be a part of air and clod,
One with Nature; one with God.

(Usually I want to know
What kind of apples it helped grow;
And wonder, for my garden’s sake,
What sort of compost will it make?)

by Ray Romine Wednesday, October 17, 1951