Category: Nature

Busy, brown, petite, pell-mell,
The wren conducts her hunger race;
No insecticide so well
Combines efficiency with grace…….

by Ray Romine Monday, December 19, 1949

I meant to get things done–I really did–
But then that thrush would pick today to pour
His water-notes upon the air, and bid.
Me follow him to where the summer’s core
Lay everywhere about. We found nine-bark,
A yellow-breasted chat, and Queen Anne’s Lace;
Bob White, a wildw singing meadow-lark,
A field of wheat with ever-changing face,
Sun through an oak; and, in the roadside dust,
A butterfly I’d never seen before.
Till back at last it ended, as days must,
And, pausing with my hand upon the door,
I add it up. Here is the sum precisely:
I lived today; the work has kept quite nicely.

by Ray Romine Thursday, July 10, 1952

Here, in the sun-speckled woods today,
Where the moss carpet’s odor and damp bark smell
Distract from the trilliums’ display,
Springtime has woven the perfect spell.
It seeps to me slowly, through my pores.
On this day of days, when I take, not give,
Finding breathlessly new encores,
I hope nobody minds if I just want to live…

by Ray Romine Saturday, January 13, 1951

God, keep me so that every dawn
Which I watch walk across the lawn
May bring to me in every way
The thrill this one has been today.

By three small hushed notes from a bird
The lazy growing morn was stirred.
He opened slow one dew-decked lid
And sighed–the poplars said he did–
And yawned and stretched arms wide to take
The dreams of blossoms half awake.
As both his eyes were opened wide,
I tossed my metaphor aside
And watched in ever-fresh surprise
One more new way to light the skies.

Though I am bowed, with whitened hair,
Through circumstances foul or fair
My youth and I shall sit withdrawn
And see another, fairer dallll.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, May 15, 1945

The rising sun and colored cloud,
The fragrant valley, freshly plowed,
The field where daisies rock unbowed–
We cannot see: we’re busy.

The wren that bursts his feathered throat,
The cricket’s noisy, rickety rote,
The night-hawk’s thrilling evening gloat–
We cannot hear: we’re busy.

Sweet William’s pungency, the rose,
Lush breath of June that scarcely blows,
Subtle smell from everything that grows–
We cannot sense: we’re busy.

The Might that caused the dew to fall ,
That reared the Oak tree, stout and tall,
That helped each gentle blossom small,
We cannot feel: we’re busy.

The Power that wrought the Evening Star ,
That makes our sunsets what they are,
That spilled the Milky Way afar,
We cannot grasp: we’ re busy!

Too busy, we, with trifling things,
To sense the solace Nature brings,
To harmonize when Beauty sings,
To realize we all are Kings–
A pity–we’re so busy!
…..
Who have not time for all these things,
The thrill that all-wise Nature flings,
Could never master Angel’s Wings:
We couldn’t learn–too busy!

by Ray Romine Saturday, June 20, 1942

The clouds on my horizon
Are but things of light and shade
To make a better picture
When the final print is made.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 2, 1951

“Leave the vegetation
For others to enjoy”
{Else he who visits later
Has nothing to destroy)

by Ray Romine Sunday, October 15, 1950

A red leaf said to a yellow leaf
On a bright October day:
“Cheer up, old thing–this is our last fling,
So let’s, above all, be gay. “

But a human just isn’t built this way:
He has a loftier goal.
Though the end’s not yet, he must fumble and fret
Because of his alleged soul!

by Ray Romine Saturday, October 26, 1946

Softly, when the Summer blows
Scented breath across the rose,
Long-lashed clouds with modest eyes
Sing from friendly aqua skies:

Come out, Man, out!
Petals are falling;
Meadows are sprawling;
Woodlands are calling:
Come out…

Or when darkling frown-clouds mass,
Dropping gems against the glass,
Can be heard above the rain
Gently, faintly, this retrain:

Come out, Man, out!
Branches are squeaking;
Moist earth is reeking;
Wet steps are creaking,
Come out….

When the Chewink, hid from view,
Scratches wildly; and the hue
Of a startled Thrasher’s blur
Beguiles you, hear the Wren-song whir:

Come out, Man, out!
Trees are embracing;
Butterflies racing;
Squirrels are chasing;
Come out….

Where old-fashioned Queen Anne’s Lace
Bows and smiles with charming grace,
From behind a Goldenrod
Sounds the gentle Voice ot God:

Come out, man, out!
Leave pomp and riches
And fame in their niches;
The out-doors bewitches–
Come out!

by Ray Romine Thursday, July 15, 1948

However anthered, whorled, or jivey,
Plants to me are Poison Ivy.

From Dusseldorf to Attica,
I ignore Hepatica.

And take your Eupatorium–
I have no uses forium.

I do not ever go on searches
For Bloodroot, Dandelions or Birches.

Butternuts or Elms or Ashes
Are so many rooted rashes.

I’m even apt to hurry faster,
Should you point me out an Aster.

I leave to Nature and to God
All the forms of Goldenrod.

And Ragweed is a gay deceiver-What
is it except Hay-fever?

And though it WALKS or runs, a dern
Fern, to me, is just a Fern!

The urge it takes to study Botany–
Could be, I guess, I haven’t gotany.

The green world, though, you can not beat it-You
have to either starve–or eat it….

by Ray Romine Monday, September 23, 1946