Post up your favorite wilderness poem.

A dog does not live as long as a man and this natural law is the fount of many tears. If a boy and a puppy might grow to manhood and doghood together, and together grow old, and so in due course die, many a heartache might be avoided. But the world is not so ordered, and dogs will die and men will weep for them so long as there are dogs and men. - Ben Ames Williams, Fraternity Village

Billy
 
This has been one of my personal favorites for a long time.
It definitely speaks of what life is about for me, and why I do what I do.
The author has other accomplishments, but his writing appeals to me the most.


And My Heart Soars

The beauty of the trees,
the softness of the air,
the fragrance of the grass,
speaks to me.

The summit of the mountain,
the thunder of the sky,
the rhythm of the sea,
speaks to me.

The faintness of the stars,
the freshness of the morning,
the dew drop on the flower,
speaks to me.

The strength of fire,
the taste of salmon,
the trail of the sun,
And the life that never goes away,
They speak to me.

And my heart soars.
Geswanouth Slahoot
(Chief Dan George)
 
Ok, I found this in an old Boy Scout manual published in the 1940s.

Oh, my stomach is just aching
For a little bit of bacon
A hunk of bread and a cup of brew.
I'm tired of seeing scenery.
Just lead me to the beanery,
Where there's something more than air to chew.
 
While in general I prefer Sam McGee here's another that my old grand dad would recite and it fits the wilderness theme better.

The Spell of the Yukon
Robert Service
1874-1958

I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy--I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it--
Came out with a fortune last fall--
Yet somehow life's not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn't all.

No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?)
It's the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when He made it,
Some say it's a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there's some as would trade it
For no land on earth--and I'm one.

You come to get rich (damned good reason);
You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
And then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kinds of sinning,
It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it's been since the beginning,
It seems it will be to the end.

I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That's plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I've watched the big, husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,
Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop,
And I've thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o' the world piled on top.

The summer--no sweeter was ever;
The sunshiny woods all athrill;
The grayling aleap in the river,
The bighorn asleep on the hill.
The strong life that never knows harness;
The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness
O God! how I'm stuck on it all.

The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history,
The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
I've bade 'em good-bye--but I can't.

There's a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still,
There's a land--oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back--and I will.

They're making my money diminish;
I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God! when I'm skinned to a finish
I'll pike to the Yukon again.
I'll fight--and you bet it's no sham-fight;
It's hell!--but I've been there before;
And it's better than this by a damn site--
So me for the Yukon once more.

There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting;
It's luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting
So much as just finding the gold.
It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder,
It's the forests where silence has lease;
It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It's the stillness that fills me with peace.
 
Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

Atree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
 
This is a Poem from my favorite out-door adventure books, Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings".

From "The Fellowship of the Ring"

When Winter first begins to bite,
And stones crack in the frosty night,

When pools are black and trees are bare,
Tis' evil in the Wild to fare.

----- Eric
 
borrowed time said:
This is a Poem from my favorite out-door adventure books, Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings".

From "The Fellowship of the Ring"

When Winter first begins to bite,
And stones crack in the frosty night,

When pools are black and trees are bare,
Tis' evil in the Wild to fare.

----- Eric
Click to expand...

Sounds like a chilly late-fall night here in Ontario. Perfect camping weather - no bugs. Heck, you could bundle up in the tent and read Tolkien by candle-light. ;)

All the best,

- Mike
 
It's not specifically about the wilderness, but I've always associated " In Flanders Fields" with the wilderness. Among other, more obvious meanings, I feel it juxtaposes and describes humanity's effect on the natural world.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the poppies row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up your quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Lt. Col. John McCrae MD, 1872-1918
 
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Not exactly outdoorsy but for the guys like Rock6
The Whistle Of Sandy McGraw
Robert Service
Click Here!

You may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine,
Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a',
But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine
The wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw.
Oh, it's: "Sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us a tune?"
And Sandy is willin' and trillin' like mad;
Sae silvery sweet that we a' throng aroun',
And some o' it's gay, but the maist o' it's sad.
Jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your hert,
And grup ye wi' love and wi' longin' for hame;
And ye glour like an owl till you're feelin' the stert
O' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame.
For his song's o' the heather, and here in the dirt
You listen and dream o' a land that's sae braw,
And he mak's you forget a' the harm and the hurt,
For he pipes like a laverock, does Sandy McGraw.

* * * * *

At Eepers I mind me when rank upon rank
We rose from the trenches and swept like the gale,
Till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the flank
And the murderin' bullets came swishin' like hail:
Till a' that were left o' us faltered and broke;
Till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout,
When shrill through the fume and the flash and the smoke
The wee valiant voice o' a whistle piped out.
`The Campbells are Comin'': Then into the fray
We bounded wi' bayonets reekin' and raw,
And oh we fair revelled in glory that day,
Jist thanks to the whistle o' Sandy McGraw.

* * * * *

At Loose, it wis after a sconnersome fecht,
On the field o' the slain I wis crawlin' aboot;
And the rockets were burnin' red holes in the nicht;
And the guns they were veciously thunderin' oot;
When sudden I heard a bit sound like a sigh,
And there in a crump-hole a kiltie I saw:
"Whit ails ye, ma lad? Are ye woundit?" says I.
"I've lost ma wee whustle," says Sandy McGraw.
"'Twas oot by yon bing where we pressed the attack,
It drapped frae ma pooch, and between noo and dawn
There isna much time so I'm jist crawlin' back. . . ."
"Ye're daft, man!" I telt him, but Sandy wis gone.
Weel, I waited a wee, then I crawled oot masel,
And the big stuff wis gorin' and roarin' around,
And I seemed tae be under the oxter o' hell,
And Creation wis crackin' tae bits by the sound.
And I says in ma mind: "Gang ye back, ye auld fule!"
When I thrilled tae a note that wis saucy and sma';
And there in a crater, collected and cool,
Wi' his wee penny whistle wis Sandy McGraw.
Ay, there he wis playin' as gleg as could be,
And listenin' hard wis a spectacled Boche;
Then Sandy turned roon' and he noddit tae me,
And he says: "Dinna blab on me, Sergeant McTosh.
The auld chap is deein'. He likes me tae play.
It's makin' him happy. Jist see his een shine!"
And thrillin' and sweet in the hert o' the fray
Wee Sandy wis playin' The Watch on the Rhine.

* * * * *

The last scene o' a' -- 'twas the day that we took
That bit o' black ruin they ca' Labbiesell.
It seemed the hale hillside jist shivered and shook,
And the red skies were roarin' and spewin' oot shell.
And the Sergeants were cursin' tae keep us in hand,
And hard on the leash we were strainin' like dugs,
When upward we shot at the word o' command,
And the bullets were dingin' their songs in oor lugs.
And onward we swept wi' a yell and a cheer,
And a' wis destruction, confusion and din,
And we knew that the trench o' the Boches wis near,
And it seemed jist the safest bit hole tae be in.
So we a' tumbled doon, and the Boches were there,
And they held up their hands, and they yelled: "Kamarad!"
And I merched aff wi' ten, wi' their palms in the air,
And my! I wis prood-like, and my! I wis glad.
And I thocht: if ma lassie could see me jist then. . . .
When sudden I sobered at somethin' I saw,
And I stopped and I stared, and I halted ma men,
For there on a stretcher wis Sandy McGraw.
Weel, he looks in ma face, jist as game as ye please:
"Ye ken hoo I hate tae be workin'," says he;
"But noo I can play in the street for bawbees,
Wi' baith o' ma legs taken aff at the knee."
And though I could see he wis rackit wi' pain,
He reached for his whistle and stertit tae play;
And quaverin' sweet wis the pensive refrain:
The floors o' the forest are a' wede away.
Then sudden he stoppit: "Man, wis it no grand
Hoo we took a' them trenches?" . . . He shakit his heid:
"I'll -- no -- play -- nae -- mair ----" feebly doon frae his hand
Slipped the wee penny whistle and -- Sandy wis deid.

* * * * *

And so you may talk o' your Steinways and Strads,
Your wonderful organs and brasses sae braw;
But oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads,
Yon wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw.
 
Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.
Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.
The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy,
while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn.

John Muir
US (Scottish-born) conservationist & naturalist (1838 - 1914)
 
Here is one I had published a year ago:


The Stumps

Farmers had felled trees many years ago
and drug them with chains to where
we spent tense hours and easy nights
in the summer. Raising our time
when we should have checked.
They cut tops and trunks
and found no use for the rest.
No one but us.
The sun descended through the smattered leaves
where we would stay without will of motion until
drunk on Vietnam,
we would force ourselves to our feet,
attempting to fill our shoes.
Another would raise his makeshift rifle
at where I stalked. Not finding a clearing,
(you miss so often despite your aim)
would attempt to settle down.
Later to muster his Diomedes,
destined, it seemed, Achillies.
I knelt to collect my blood from my feet
and could not help but smell,
even through the plastic of my mask,
where the condensation dripped
off the ace of spades I had painted there
the dry sandy loam fell that from the roots
of the behemoth that gave me cover.
I wanted to walk point - warn my comrades of danger.
Tell them “Stick together”.
Allow my actions to speak for themselves.
My off hand felt the warm cool dirt,
it smelled just like it does right before the rain.





TF
 
How to Treat Elves

by Morris Bishop

I met an elf-man in the woods,
the wee-est little elf!
Sitting under a mushroom tall—
'twas taller than himself.
"How do you do, little elf," I said,
"and what do you do all day?"
"I dance and frolic about," said he,
"and jump about and play!
"I su'prise the butterflies, and when
a katydid I see,
'Katy didn't!' I say to him, and
'Katy did!' he says to me!
"I hide behind my mushroom stalk
when Mister Mole comes through,
and only just to fwighten him
I jump out and say, 'Boo!'
"And then I swing on a cobweb swing,
up in the air so high!
And the crickets chirp just to hear me sing,
'Upsy daisy die!'
"And then I play with the baby chicks—
I call them, 'Chick! chick! chick!'
And what do you think of that?" said he.
I said, "It makes me sick."
It gives me sharp and shooting pains
to listen to such drool,
so I lifted up my foot and squashed
the goddamned little fool. ;)
 
Invictus
William Ernest Henley
1849–1903

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
 
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