7 Poems about Grass and Lawns

Here you will find a collection of poems about grass and lawns. While we all would prefer green healthy lawns with an abundance of lush green grass there are times this is not possible. Enjoy the words in the rhymes and verses these different poets have to offer about grass and lawns.


Short Poems   /   Garden Poems    /   Poems about Grass and Lawns

  1. Her lawn
    looks like a meadow,
    And if she mows the place
    She leaves the clover standing
    And the Queen Anne's Lace.
    Edna St. Vincent Millay



  2. I am the mown grass, dying at your feet,
    The pale grass, gasping faintly in the sun.
    I shall be dead, long, long ere day is done,
    That you may say: "The air, to-day, was sweet."
    I am the mown grass, dying at your feet.
    Margaret Gilman Davidson



  3. Grass is the forgiveness of nature -
    her constant benediction.
    Forests decay, harvests perish, flowers vanish,
    but grass is immortal.
    Brian Ingalls



  4. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
    My humble song of praise
    Most joyfully I raise To Him at whose command
    I beautify the land,
    Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.
    Sarah Roberts Boyle



  5. God Bless the grass
    That grows through the crack they roll the concrete over it
    To try and keep it back the concrete gets tired
    Of what it has to do it breaks and it buckles
    And the grass grows through. God bless the grass
    Malvina Reynolds



  6. The Lawn Mower
    Poet: Sarah Barber

    When we finally flip it over
    the fireflies are out. The neighbor boy
    has had his stitches in so I can finally admit
    I think it is all fantastic: the suck
    of the spark plug undone, the stuck blade
    bent into the guard, and the sound
    of the hammer’s head reshaping the metal.
    In this our suburban Eden we’ve only
    a teenage Adam too dreamy to manage
    his motorized scythe and silly Eve leaving
    her coffee cups and plastic plant pots
    behind in the grass. Though it’s a long way
    from a fall, this spring’s first disaster,
    I did like the thin thread of red
    on his upper lip, and I like my mower
    turned over among the glowworms,
    a monstrous dandelion as unnatural as we
    are, out in a garden, with our untidy
    golds and our dangerous sharps.



  7. The Grass?
    Poet: Walt Whitman

    A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with fullhands;
    How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it is any more than he.
    I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

    Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
    A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
    Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

    Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe of the vegetation.
    Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
    And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
    Growing among black folks as among white,
    Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.
    And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

    Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
    It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
    It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
    It may be you are from old people and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
    And here you are the mother's laps.

    This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
    Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
    Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
    O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
    And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

    I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
    And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
    What do you think has become of the young and old men?
    What do you think has become of the women and children?

    They are alive and well somewhere;
    The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
    And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
    And ceased the moment life appeared.

    All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
    And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Our gardens are beautiful and the grass and lawn surrounding them can add to their beauty. We hope these poems and verses inspire you!

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