Behold the hymn that sings without words,
The quiet symphony of the waking earth.
Nature, the ancient artist, brushes the sky.
She is the first poem, the sacred verse,
Carved in mountain lines, and oceans curves.
Her voice is thunder, her laughter rain,
Her silence ? An alter where peace remains.
The river writes cursive, winding free,
Telling tales to rocks and trees.
Leaves clap in the rhythm of the wind's applause.
And flowers open like psalms in bloom.
The sky wear it moods in robes of flame,
From sapphire calm to silver storm.
The moon and sun ? Lantern guiding dreamers right.
Let's appreciate nature, let's feed our eyes with thy beauty.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 6:03 AM UTC
Behold the hymn that sings without words,
The quiet symphony of the waking earth.
Nature, the ancient artist, brushes the sky.
She is the first poem, the sacred verse,
Carved in mountain lines, and oceans curves.
Her voice is thunder, her laughter rain,
Her silence ? An alter where peace remains.
The river writes cursive, winding free,
Telling tales to rocks and trees.
Leaves clap in the rhythm of the wind's applause.
And flowers open like psalms in bloom.
The sky wear it moods in robes of flame,
From sapphire calm to silver storm.
The moon and sun ? Lantern guiding dreamers right.
Let's appreciate nature, let's feed our eyes with thy beauty.