Nurse’s Song

By William Blake

When voices of children are heard on the green,
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast,
And everything else is still.

‘Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of night arise;
Come, come, leave off play, and let us away,
Till the morning appears in the skies.’

‘No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,
And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,
And the hills are all covered with sheep.’

‘Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
And then go home to bed.’
The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed,
And all the hills echoed.

There Was A Place

By Kirti Santosh

There was a place, that I used to see,
In my dreams, every night, I did see,
A land that had, always,
Joy in all walkways.
A land that had in plenty,
Happiness in bounty.
A land that had lives making merry,
With their kith and kin, never worrying.

A land that had brotherhood,
Across every neighbourhood.
A land, that was synonymous to nature,
With harmony amongst every creature.
A land, that sadly seems
To be just in my dreams.

Kirti, an IT professional turned teacher, took into poetry writing during the lockdown in COVID year. Apart from being a voracious reader, she enjoys music, sports, and drawing. She loves reading and writing in many Indian languages. She is a good orator and loves to recite poems.

This Time When You Hear Meow II


Leopard Cat is a beautiful, somewhat elongated looking wildcat, with a golden yellow coat, splotched with black. This is to be found all over India in diverse habitats. These are ferocious and difficult to tame. Mostly it is a nocturnal hunter, gunning for small mammals, birds, reptiles and insects. It is listed as of Least Concern in the IUCN Red List.


Golden cat is found in North East India, southern China and southeast Asia. It is considered Near Threatened, with a declining population. Considered a delicacy, it is eaten by tribesmen in Bangladesh. It is believed It may be reddish brown, fawn or tan and is a good climber. Thought to be nocturnal, it takes down birds, hares, reptiles and even small mammals.


Caracal specialises in leaping vertically 10-12 ft in the air from a standing position to bat down flying birds. Though considered of Least Concern by the IUCN Red Book, it’s been recently declared as critically endangered in India. It is a medium sized chunky, sand coloured wildcat, whose powerful hind legs are longer than its forelegs and its ears are triangular-tufted. The 20 muscles in each ear enable them to twist and turn independently, to pinpoint the target. Nocturnal and secretive, it breeds throughout the year.


Feral Cats are basically domestic cats that usually will have nothing to do with human beings. They hind independently and are considered a major threat to urban wildlife by conservationists.


This Time When You Hear Meow

Rusty Spotted Cat

Rusty Spotted Cat (around 40 cm long) is only found in India (nearly all around the country), Sri Lanka and the terai in Nepal. Its short fur is reddish grey, with rusty spots on its back and flanks. It is an inhabitant of dry deciduous forests, scrub grasslands and dense vegetation. It hunts mainly rodents and birds. It’s population is estimated at about 10,000 and are declining.

Marbled Cat

Marbld cat is found in the forests of the Eastern Himalayas. It is brownish-grey to ochreous-brown on top and greyish below and about the size of a domestic cat but with a very long (over 30 cm), very furry tail. It’s coat is attractively patterned in black, giving it a marbled appearance. The IUCN Redbook has listed it as Near Threatened.

Fishing Cat

Fishing Cat is stoutly built, medium in size over 3 ft long, deep yellow or ash grey with black stripes and spots. It wears a double coat : a short dense coat provides water proofing and guards against chill, while a longer more decorative coat gives it it’s good look. It has been listed as Vulnerable by the IUCN Redbook. It is a true wetland cat, a great swimmer that can stay underwater for long periods. It is patchily distributed in South and southeast India as well as the Sunderbans, the foothills of the Himalayas and Ganga and Brahmaputra valleys.

Jungle Cat

Jungle Cat is a medium sized, wetland loving cat. It has been listed as of Least Concern by the IUCN Redbook. It has a white muzzle, hair tufts sticking out of its ears, implacable yellow eyes and an even sandy, grey or brownish coat, marked with spots. It roams around in agricultural lands, hunting gerbils, rodents, reptiles and birds. It is India’s commonest wildcat.


Lines Written A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey

On revisiting the banks of the Wye during a tour. July 13, 1798

By William Wordsworth

Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a sweet inland murmur.—Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Among the woods and copses lose themselves,
Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves,
Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees,
With some uncertain notice, as might seem,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit’s cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone.

These beauteous forms, though long absent, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration:—feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,
As may have had no trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man’s life;
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lighten’d:—that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,—
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee
O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the wood
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.

Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence—wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

The World Is Too Much With Us

By William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.


By Toru Dutt

A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts of all colours here are seen;
The light-green graceful tamarinds abound
Amid the mangoe clumps of green profound,
And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
And o’er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
Red,—red, and startling like a trumpet’s sound
But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges
Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon
Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes
Into a cup of silver. One might swoon
Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
On a primeval Eden, in amaze.

I Was Falling Down

By Neha Afzaal

I was falling down,
Just like the autumn leaves.
Then you gave me hand and picked me up,
And I got the hope to not give up.

The sky was absorbing the shades of orange,
The field was getting dry and dead,
The lively trees were standing unaided,
The air was getting more restrained.

I was feeling empty,
Just like an autumn tree without it’s leaves,
Then you came and filled the colours of love,
So I could feel the true love.

Neha Afzaal is a linguist.

मैनें पाया है प्यार वहां

By Urmi Joshi

मुझे इस इंसानी दुनिया की सोच समझ नहीं आती
इनके मुताबिक जहां लड़की और लड़का बस वहीं प्यार पाया जाता

मैनें पाया है प्यार वहां जहां जहां मैनें प्रकृति को पाया
मैनें पाया है प्यार बिल्कुल मेरी माँ के जैसा जहां जहां मैनें प्रकृति को देखा

मुझे तो इस प्रकृति की दुनिया से प्यार है बेशुमार है
कारण सिर्फ़ इतना की ये भेद की भाषा जाने ना

मुझे इस प्रकृति की दुनिया से प्यार है क्योंकि
धर्म जात पात के भेद को ये पहचाने ना

मुझे इस प्रकृति की दुनिया से प्यार है क्योंकि
इसकी नज़र में कोई ऊंच नीच वाला बरताव ना

मुझे इस प्रकृति की दुनिया से प्यार है क्योंकि
ये मुझे ये जताती ना की लड़कियां कमज़ोर होती है

मुझे इस प्रकृति की दुनिया से प्यार है क्योंकि
ये सभी को एक समान प्यार करना जानती है
इंसानी दुनिया का दोगलापन नहीं पहचानती है

मैनें तो प्यार पाया है प्रकृति के हर कण कण में
वो प्यार मैं पा जाती हूं जब जब मैं सांसे लेती हूं

मैनें तो प्यार पाया है इस वसुंधरा से
जो मुझे अपनी धरा से जोड़े रखती है

मैनें तो प्यार पाया है इन लहलहाती फसलों से
जो मुझे और सबको अपने पौष्टिक तत्वों से सन्तुष्ट बनाती है

मैनें तो प्यार पाया है जीवन के अमृत जल से
जो मेरी और सबकी तृष्णा मिटाती है

हां! मुझे इस प्रकृति की दुनिया से प्यार है बेशुमार है

Urmi Joshi loves to write poetry which reflects her love for the nature.

Picture-Inspired Poetry, February 2021

Picture Credit : Pinterest/DeviantArt


  • We accept only original and unpublished work.
  • Write whatever comes to your mind at looking this image by Deviant Art and send us. (Poetry only)
  • Submissions are open from February 1, 2021 – February 15, 2021 only. Entries thereafter will not be considered.
  • We accept Entries in the languages Hindi, English and Urdu.
  • Only the best three of all entries will be published. One from each language.



To not miss the coming month’s picture, plus the daily posts, subscribe to our mailing list.

Memorial Verses

April 1850

By Matthew Arnold

Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,
Long since, saw Byron’s struggle cease.
But one such death remain’d to come;
The last poetic voice is dumb—
We stand to-day by Wordsworth’s tomb.

When Byron’s eyes were shut in death,
We bow’d our head and held our breath.
He taught us little; but our soul
Had felt him like the thunder’s roll.
With shivering heart the strife we saw
Of passion with eternal law;
And yet with reverential awe
We watch’d the fount of fiery life
Which served for that Titanic strife.

When Goethe’s death was told, we said:
Sunk, then, is Europe’s sagest head.
Physician of the iron age,
Goethe has done his pilgrimage.
He took the suffering human race,
He read each wound, each weakness clear;
And struck his finger on the place,
And said: Thou ailest here, and here!

He look’d on Europe’s dying hour
Of fitful dream and feverish power;
His eye plunged down the weltering strife,
The turmoil of expiring life—
He said: The end is everywhere,
Art still has truth, take refuge there!
And he was happy, if to know
Causes of things, and far below
His feet to see the lurid flow
Of terror, and insane distress,
And headlong fate, be happiness.

And Wordsworth!—Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice!
For never has such soothing voice
Been to your shadowy world convey’d,
Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade
Heard the clear song of Orpheus come
Through Hades, and the mournful gloom.
Wordsworth has gone from us—and ye,
Ah, may ye feel his voice as we!
He too upon a wintry clime
Had fallen—on this iron time
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
He found us when the age had bound
Our souls in its benumbing round;
He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.
He laid us as we lay at birth
On the cool flowery lap of earth,
Smiles broke from us and we had ease;

The hills were round us, and the breeze
Went o’er the sun-lit fields again;
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth return’d; for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead,
Spirits dried up and closely furl’d,
The freshness of the early world.

Ah! since dark days still bring to light
Man’s prudence and man’s fiery might,
Time may restore us in his course
Goethe’s sage mind and Byron’s force;
But where will Europe’s latter hour
Again find Wordsworth’s healing power?
Others will teach us how to dare,
And against fear our breast to steel;
Others will strengthen us to bear—
But who, ah! who, will make us feel?
The cloud of mortal destiny,
Others will front it fearlessly—
But who, like him, will put it by?

Keep fresh the grass upon his grave,
O Rotha, with thy living wave!
Sing him thy best! for few or none
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.

Little Girl And Her Moon

By Sheebah

I was staring at my books listlessly in the noon,
as I thought of a story about a girl and the moon.

Once upon a time, there lived a young, enthusiastic girl,
who had charming eyes and lovely brown curls.
She was fond of the shape shifting celstial body
and would sing lullabies about its beauty daily.
At nights, she would wait near the wooden door,
hoping that one night it will land on the porch.
She imagined riding it to the chilly North Pole,
thinking about it somehow calmed her soul.
She would often address it as “My Dear Moon”
and for the humanity, she considered it to be a boon.
“Come down to the earth, come play with me,
come pay me a visit, come down to me”.
She watched it change its shape every night
and everytime she would be pleased with its sight.

A few years passed and the girl grew older
Her hopes for the Moon’s visit became fainter.
One night, when she wasn’t waiting anymore
She heard a soft knock on the wooden door.
The beloved Moon had come down to the earth,
to visit the girl who appreciated the reflector’s worth.
“Dear Moon?”, whispered the admirer doubtfully
as the beloved Moon stood on the porch silently.

As I watched the girl walk towards the door
Something started pulling me down on the floor,
As I fell towards the floor and kept falling continuously
I heard some footsteps and then a door creaked slowly
I continued falling down when someone shook my shoulder
“Oh dear! You’re sleeping again”, said my mother
“Dreaming and exploring, Mother”, I said to her,
as I thought about the fate of the Moon and its admirer.

Sheebah is a student of class XI whose hobby is to write poetry.

The Wet

By Wani Hadii

Looking like pearl on flower petal top
Falls the rain drop by drop
Soothing and slow is the falling rain
Falling on mountains and on plain
On the greenery when it goes down
Plummeting and alluring seems the uptown
Dropping down on dusty thoroughfare
Removing its dust by making it clear
Loving to play in this slow falling rain
Lessening my pain and deadly strain
On this rainy day my sister made a boat
Keeping that on water and making it float
Jovial the sight when falling from the cloud
Thundering along to make it sound loud
Truly said that bundle of our sin
Prevents rain from falling in

Wani Hadii is a lover of poetry who likes to write on nature.
Instagram handle : @landofpoems13

The Lit Sky

By Khushi Singh

Sitting under the lit sky
While holding my weak hand,
Your eyes shined with protracted rays
Of enlivened spirits,
Trying to vanquish
My pesky soul.

You stroked your hand
In my labyrinth of malignant thoughts.
Untangling each situation,
With love and care.

Hearsays didn’t matter to you,
As you knew my story which was the least popular— The Truth
You faced the fusillade of questions,
As a forthright ally while matching your steps
With mine during the dark nights.

You bore my pain as yours,
With a great fortitude
Fighting the ephemeral battles,
With the faulty souls.

Sitting under the lit sky,
While holding my weak hand.
We promised ourselves,
To stay by each others’ sides
Till infinity.

Khushi Singh, a high-school student, is a reader by day and writer by the night, who tells story through poetry.

Picture-Inspired Poetry, January 2021


  • We accept only original and unpublished work.
  • Write whatever comes to your mind at looking this image by Vadim Sadovski and send us. (Poetry only)
  • Submissions are open from January 1, 2021 – January 15, 2021 only. Entries thereafter will not be considered.
  • We accept Entries in the languages Hindi, English and Urdu.
  • Only the best three of all entries will be published. One from each language.



To not miss the coming month’s picture, plus the daily posts, subscribe to our mailing list.