Nature Song, by Lindsey Ein

‘Tis early dawn and all around
no bird song floated down the hill
O Nature! All thy seasons please the eye
ring out wild bells to the wild sky.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright
between dark and daylight
a fragment of a rainbow bright.

Fair daffodils we weep to see
the violet loves a sunny bank
they grow in beauty side by side
into the sunshine.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods
there through the long, long summer hours
the melancholy days are come.

Where, where are all the birds that sang?
The warm sun is failing.
Freshly the cool breath of the coming eve
in the west the weary day
electric essence permeates the air.
Yet one smile more departing distant sun
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank.
There are moments in life that we never forget.

Written by Lindsey Ein and read aloud at OLN LIVE on Thursday, Sept. 19.

Every line of this poem is from a line in a poem by a poet. Here, line by line, are the poems and author:

Line 1: Flowers: Thomas Moses
Line 2: The River Path: Whittier
Line 3: The Seasons: Grahame
Line 4: Ring Out Wild Bells: Tennyson
Line 5: Vertue: George Herbert
Line 6: The Children’s Hour: Longfellow
Line 7: The Rainbow: J. Keble
Line 8: Daffodils: R. Herrick
Line 9: Proposal: Bayard Taylor
Line 10: The Graves of a Household: Mrs. Hemans
Line 11: The Rountain: James Russell Lowell
Line 12: Solitude: Byron
Line 13: June: Bryant
Line 14: The Death of Flowers: Brya
Line 15: A Hundred Years Ago: Anonymous
Line 16: Autumn: Shelley
Line 17: Healing of the Daughter of Jairus: Willis
Line 18: In Reverie: Harriet McEwen Kimball
Line 19: An Acrostic: F.A.
Line 20: November: Bryant
Line 21: From The Merchant of Venice: Shakespeare
Line 22: Remembrance: Percival

All of the above poems are from “Favorite Poems Illustrated”: 1880’s, given to my Aunt Josephine Brown in 1881.
Image from

Are We Too Late?

Boldly may we walk,
yet resolutely, carefully.
Minding the soul of Mother Earth,
respecting her fragility.
Oceans rise in anger.
Assault shorelines,
swallow homes built too near.
Heat past simmering patience.
Melt polar ice, bleach coral reefs,
threaten aquatic life.
Can we appease her?

Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, we’re to asked include the word BOLD, or a form of the word (not a synonym) within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Image from

OLN LIVE will be on Thursday, January 19th from 3 to 4 PM EST . . . AND . . . on Saturday, January 21st from 10 to 11 AM EST. Come to the dVerse home page on Thursday and/or Saturday and click on the appropriate link that will take you to the live session. All are welcome across all time zones! Come to simply listen and meet poets from around the globe OR come and read a poem of your choice. We’re a very friendly bunch so we hope you’ll join us at one or both sessions. Mark you calendars now!

Some Days

Some days
I’d like to be in the midst of fog.
Where mountains,
yesterday tall and imposing,
disappear today.
Where ethereal moist clouds
descend to earth,
enveloping her in softness.
Bring me serenity,
as mist hovers over land,
hides imposing granite walls
too difficult to climb.
Soften my being
with the lightest of rain  that pours not,
rather drifts in swirls round my head,
my eyes, my limbs.
Take me to that weathered landscape
where nature cajoles hatred into oblivion,
and we simply marvel at beauty
we did not recognize before.
Take me there, if not in reality,
then in dense dreams of solace,
just for a little while.
I crave escape.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, from 3 to 4 PM Boston time, we shall gather face-to-face via GoogleMeet at OLN LIVE! Link to join can be found here at 3 PM or shortly thereafter. Just click and come join us! You’re invited to read a poem of your own…or simply sit in and listen…we’re a friendly bunch and it’s quite fun!

Photo from trip a number of years ago to Alaska.

Power in a Bottle

Ah, belladonna,
how formidable art thee.
Thine power used since Roman times.
Claudius and Augustus, dead,
wifely potions lethal with thee.

Medieval women
placed drops of thee in their eyes.
Became alluring with wide-eyed innocence,
capturing a gentleman caller’s proposal
curtailing his gigolo lust.

It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Kim asks us to use the word “bell” or a form of the word, in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Image from

Belladonna is a potent plant. Reserach tells us in Roman times, it did indeed kill Emperors Claudius and Augustus when placed in a potion made by their wives. It is said that Macbeth of Scotland used it to poison the liquor supply of invading troops from England. In medieval times, drops of belladonna were used by women for cosmetic purposes: to widen their eyes to make them seem more alluring. Today, belladonna is used by many opthamologists to dilate pupils for examination.

Sensory Delight

Quilt me a cacophony of colors,
floral me a scene.
Roses, lilac, freesia, lavender, gardenia,
scents melding into sweet aroma.
Featured like fragrant punchbowl
on caterer’s gleaming sideboard.
Senses tempted to imbibe, I submit.
Feast my eyes, inhale deeply,
engulfed in garden’s ethereal delight.

Quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De asks us to use the word “punch” or a form of the word, within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photo taken a number of years ago in Ireland.

A Giverny Night

Claude Monet tiptoed
through last night’s deep slumber.
Wrapped my dream in glorious blooms,
hushed pinks fading into hazy purple iris.
Calmed my senses
with myriad brushed greens.
Dewed my eyes
as undulating water lilies
nudged me into wakefulness.
I sit remembering
and smile.

Quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish asks us to include the word “wrap” or a form of the word, within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.

Claude Monet images in public domain.

Blessed Rain

Black earth cracks open
begging through jagged, arid lips
water, please, drown me with drops
of life restoring rain.
Tendrils of roots seek my riches
to nourish them, to bloom with promises
threatened now in dark, dry soil without a drop to drink.

Butterflies and bees will be robbed of the balm they seek.
Blossoms will not open, colors will fade to yellow and brown.
Lavender will lose its scent, the fragrance of summer
begs for life restoring rain.
Clouds blow in providing shade but no rain falls from
decorator clouds that quickly puff away.
We watch the radar but it is like the pot that never boils.

Thunderstorms are possible they say.
Rumbles of thunder are heard in the distance,
winds pick up, branches fall in dry frustration.
Black earth cries out
water, please, drown me with drops
of life restoring, blessed rain.

Written by Lindsey Ein for OLN LIVE at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Image from

Ode to Mary Oliver

I see her walking through peonies
waiting patiently for the strawberry moon.
She, the night traveler in my dreams.
She bids me walk slowly, eyes open in my sleep,
to explore her natural world.
Together we soar on the wings of a hawk
as goldfinches sing and wonder precedes us.
Approaching Provincetown,
we marvel at migrating wild geese
making their cacophonous way
to their winter’s resting place.
As I begin to drift near rising
she leads me past fields of goldenrod
to a small pond bedecked in floating flowers,
lily pads asleep and yet to bloom.
Cool winds ruffle my eyelids
like rustling leaves in a tree.
The lilies break open over the dark water
as my dream retreats into dawning sky.
I awaken to a certain sharpness in the morning air
ready to take up pen, inspired by this woman.
She, the night traveler in my dreams.

Written for NAPOWRIMO, Day 25. Today we’re to write an aisling: to recount a dream or vision featuring a woman who represents the land/country on/in which the poet lives.

Mary Oliver moved to Provincetown in the 1960s and sets most of her poetry in and around this wonderful town. An avid walker, much of her poetry comes from her observances of the natural world. I’ve incorporated 9 titles of her poems in my Ode:
Strawberry Moon
The Night Traveler
Wild Geese
The Lilies Break Open Over the Dark Water
A Certain Sharpness in the Morning Air

We’ve lived in Boston for the past twenty-five years and spend two weeks of every year in Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod. Photos from our visits to P’town.


Deep into the woods, therein lies peace.
Surrounded, enveloped in green,
lush emeralds lull my spirit
birdsong’s lilt soothes my mind.
I crave thy beauty.
I bathe in your
dappled jades,
in your

Written for NAPOWRIMO Day 9. Today we’re asked to write a nonet: first line has 9 syllables, second line has 8 syllables, third line has 7 syllables, etc.

Photo from our time in Ireland a number of years ago.

Who is the Predator?

They leave the body. Bloody pile of corpuscles dragged to Lake Manyara’s shore. Young zebra, quiet since teeth first gouged neck. Decimated.

Jowls dripping, appetite sated, his eyes bid her follow. Series of slow guttural growls signal acquiescence. Lioness follows beside. Slowly they retreat into maze of acacia trees. Unseen by approaching safari truck.

High power rifles catch glaring sun. Two men peer quietly into distance. Cheetah carcass, day’s first kill, hangs over vehicle’s hood. Not enough, they seek more.

NAPOWRIMO 2022: and so it begins with a prompt to write a prose poem that is somehow about a body, includes dialogue and at least one vivid image. Here, the dialogue is implied in the second paragraph/stanza.
Image from