Mother Nature. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

    Nature, the gentlest mother,
    Impatient of no child,
    The feeblest or the waywardest, —
    Her admonition mild

    In forest and the hill
    By traveller is heard,
    Restraining rampant squirrel
    Or too impetuous bird.

    How fair her conversation,
    A summer afternoon, —
    Her household, her assembly;
    And when the sun goes down

    Her voice among the aisles
    Incites the timid prayer
    Of the minutest cricket,
    The most unworthy flower.

    When all the children sleep
    She turns as long away
    As will suffice to light her lamps;
    Then, bending from the sky

    With infinite affection
    And infiniter care,
    Her golden finger on her lip,
    Wills silence everywhere.