John Burroughs was an American naturalist and essayist important in the evolution of the U.S. conservation movement. According to biographers at the American Memory project at the Library of Congress, John Burroughs was the most important practitioner after Henry David Thoreau of that especially American literary genre, the nature essay. By the turn of the 20th century he had become a virtual cultural institution in his own right: the Grand Old Man of Nature at a time when the American romance with the idea of nature, and the American conservation movement, had come fully into their own. His extraordinary popularity and popular visibility were sustained by a prolific stream of essay ... more »
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John Burroughs Poems
Serene, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea; I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, For lo! my own shall come to me.
My friend and neighbor through the year, Self-appointed overseer Of my crops of fruit and grain, Of my woods and furrowed plain,
A wistful note from out the sky, 'Pure, pure, pure,' in plaintive tone, As if the wand'rer were alone, And hardly knew to sing or cry.
Daisies, clover, buttercup, Redtop, trefoil, meadowsweet, Ecstatic pinions, soaring up, Then gliding down to grassy seat.
The Downy Woodpecker
Downy came and dwelt with me, Taught me hermit lore; Drilled his cell in oaken tree Near my cabin door.
The Coming of Phoebe
When buckets shine 'gainst maple trees And dropp by dropp the sap doth flow, When days are warm, but still nights freeze, And deep in woods lie drifts of snow,
List the booming from afar, Soft as hum of roving bee, Vague as when on distant bar Fall the cataracts of the sea.
Comments about John Burroughs
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it hath sown,