Here are my favorite poems about calmness categorized:
- Short poems about calmness
- Relaxing poems about nature
- Calm poems about life
So if you want the best poems about calmness, then you’re in the right place.
Let’s dig into it!
- 57 Joyful Poems About Gratefulness
- 53 Enchanting Poems About Peace
- 47 Endearing Poems About Acceptance
- 67 Bittersweet Poems About Nostalgia
- 69 Euphoric Poems About Happiness
- 67 Heartening Poems About Hope
- 43 Invigorating Poems About Smiles
Soothing Poems About Calmness
Step into the soothing sanctuary of our poetic haven, where tranquility finds its voice in the midst of life’s chaos and uncertainty.
We’ve bottled up serenity in verses that celebrate life’s quieter moments; perfect for those times when you need a quick escape to a peaceful mental oasis.
Prepare to be embraced by the gentle caress of our collection from the whispers of nature’s symphony to the tender cradle of life, these verses will lull you into a state of blissful tranquility.
Whether you’re here to find a momentary respite in our short poems or a philosophical exploration of life’s calm currents, our selection of poems is your ticket to a comforting destination.
Ready to soothe your soul?
Let’s get right into it!
My #1 Favorite Poem About Calmness
“Calm Is The Fragrant Air” by William Wordsworth
Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose
Day’s grateful warmth, tho’ moist with falling dews.
Look for the stars, you’ll say that there are none;
Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,
And wonder how they could elude the sight!
The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers,
Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers,
But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers:
Nor does the village Church-clock’s iron tone
The time’s and season’s influence disown;
Nine beats distinctly to each other bound
In drowsy sequence, how unlike the sound
That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear
On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear!
The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun,
Had closed his door before the day was done,
And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep,
And joins his little children in their sleep.
The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o’ershade,
Flits and reflits along the close arcade;
The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth
With burring note, which Industry and Sloth
Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both.
A stream is heard, I see it not, but know
By its soft music whence the waters flow:
Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more;
One boat there was, but it will touch the shore
With the next dipping of its slackened oar;
Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay,
Might give to serious thought a moment’s sway,
As a last token of man’s toilsome day!
Why Is “Calm Is The Fragrant Air” My Favorite Poem About Calmness
From all the constant chaos and grind that we do every day, it gets more and more difficult to find moments of calm and tranquility.
What makes the poem “Calm Is The Fragrant Air” by William Wordsworth a favorite for me is that it delves deeper into the moments of calm and serenity people savor after working from sunrise to sundown.
The way Wordsworth intertwine nature and the reality of a hardworking life reminded me of the beauty in appreciating the simple things we often overlook, like the serenity that embraces us as the day comes to a quiet end.
The poem is a reflection that no matter how tiring and monotonous life may get, the mundane moments of our lives have something priceless to offer and that is the beauty of calmness.
Short Poems About Calmness
Within the confines of a few lines, these poetic gems will transport you to a realm where tranquility blossoms like a delicate flower.
Soothing and delightful, our collection of concise verses will leave you feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and ready to embrace the serenity that lies within.
“Calm At Sea.” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Silence deep rules o’er the waters,
Calmly slumb’ring lies the main,
While the sailor views with trouble
Nought but one vast level plain.
Not a zephyr is in motion!
Silence fearful as the grave!
In the mighty waste of ocean
Sunk to rest is ev’ry wave.
“Fragment: ‘Ye Gentle Visitations Of Calm Thought’.” by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Ye gentle visitations of calm thought –
Moods like the memories of happier earth,
Which come arrayed in thoughts of little worth,
Like stars in clouds by the weak winds enwrought, –
But that the clouds depart and stars remain,
While they remain, and ye, alas, depart!
“New York Harbor on a Calm Day” by Park Benjamin
Is this a painting? Are those pictured clouds
Which on the sky so movelessly repose?
Has some rare artist fashioned forth the shrouds
Of yonder vessel? Are these imaged shows
Of outline, figure, form, or is there life—
Life with a thousand pulses—in the scene
We gaze upon? Those towering banks between,
E’er tossed these billows in tumultuous strife?
Billows! there ’s not a wave! the waters spread
One broad, unbroken mirror! all around
Is hushed to silence—silence so profound
That a bird’s carol, or an arrow sped
Into the distance, would, like ’larum bell,
Jar the deep stillness and dissolve the spell!
“Calm on the Bosom of thy God” by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit! rest thee now!
E’en while with ours thy footsteps trode
His seal was on thy brow.
Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high!
They that have seen thy look in death
No more may fear to die.
“Sea Calm” by Langston Hughes
How strangely still
The water is today.
It is not good
To be so still that way.
Relaxing Poems About Nature
Let our collection of verses be your passport to a world where lush landscapes, whispering leaves, and shimmering waters weave a tapestry of tranquility.
This category will wrap you in mother nature’s warm embrace and transport you to a place where worries melt away and serenity reigns supreme.
“Calm Is All Nature As A Resting Wheel” by William Wordsworth
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O’er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.
“How It Fell Calm On Summer Night.” by James Barron Hope
My Lady’s rest was calm and deep:
She had been gazing at the moon;
And thus it chanced she fell asleep
One balmy night in June.
Freebooter winds stole richest smells
From roses bursting in the gloom,
And rifled half-blown daffodils,
And lilies of perfume.
These dainty robbers of the South
Found “beauty” sunk in deep repose,
And seized upon her crimson mouth,
Thinking her lips a rose.
The wooing winds made love full fast –
To rouse her up in vain they tried –
They kist and kist her, till, at last,
In ecstasy they died.
“Quiet” by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Only the footprints of the partridge run
Over the billowy drifts on the mountain-side;
And now on level wings the brown birds glide
Following the snowy curves, and in the sun
Bright birds of gold above the stainless white
They move, and as the pale blue shadows move,
With them my heart glides on in golden flight
Over the hills of quiet to my love.
Storm-shaken, racked with terror through the long
Tempestuous night, in the quiet blue of morn
Love drinks the crystal airs, and peace newborn
Within his troubled heart, on wings aglow
Soars into rapture, as from the quiet snow
The golden birds; and out of silence, song.
“Solitude.” by Archibald Lampman
How still it is here in the woods. The trees
Stand motionless, as if they did not dare
To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air
Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.
Even this little brook, that runs at ease,
Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed,
Seems but to deepen with its curling thread
Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.
Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpecker
Startles the stillness from its fix’d mood
With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear
The dreamy white-throat from some far off tree
Pipe slowly on the listening solitude
His five pure notes succeeding pensively.
“Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802” by William Wordsworth
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
“It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free” by William Wordsworth
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility;
The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea;
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;
And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
“Solace” by Clarissa Scott Delany
My window opens out into the trees
And in that small space
Of branches and of sky
I see the seasons pass
Behold the tender green
Give way to darker heavier leaves.
The glory of the autumn comes
When steeped in mellow sunlight
The fragile, golden leaves
Against a clear blue sky
Linger in the magic of the afternoon
And then reluctantly break off
And filter down to pave
A street with gold.
Then bare, gray branches
Lift themselves against the
Cold December sky
Sometimes weaving a web
Across the rose and dusk of late sunset
Sometimes against a frail new moon
And one bright star riding
A sky of that dark, living blue
Which comes before the heaviness
Of night descends, or the stars
Have powdered the heavens.
Winds beat against these trees;
The cold, but gentle rain of spring
Touches them lightly
The summer torrents strive
To lash them into a fury
And seek to break them—
But they stand.
My life is fevered
And a restlessness at times
An agony—again a vague
And baffling discontent
I am thankful for my bit of sky
And trees, and for the shifting
Pageant of the seasons.
Such beauty lays upon the heart
Such eternal change and permanence
Take meaning from all turmoil
And leave serenity
Which knows no pain.
“The Lake Isle Of Innisfree” by William Butler Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
“Calm Was the Evening, and Clear Was the Sky” by John Dryden
Calm was the Evening, and clear was the Sky,
And the new-budding Flowers did spring,
When all alone went Amyntas and I
To hear the sweet Nightingale sing.
I sate, and he laid him down by me,
And scarcely his breath he could draw,
But when with a fear,
He began to draw near,
He was dash’d with A ha, ha, ha.
He blush’d to himself, and lay still for awhile,
And his modesty curb’d his desire,
But straight I convinc’d all his fears with a smile,
Which added new flames to his fire.
O Sylvia, said he, you are cruel,
To keep your poor Lover in awe,
Then once more he prest
With his hands to my breast,
But was dash’d with A ha, ha, ha.
I knew ’twas his passion that caus’d all his fear,
And therefore I pitied his case,
I whisper’d him softly, there’s nobody here,
And laid my cheek close to his face:
But as he grew bolder and bolder,
A shepherd came by us and saw,
And just as our bliss
We began with a Kiss;
He burst out with A Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha.
“Dover Beach” by Matthew Arnold
The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast, the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Calm Poems About Life
Find peace amidst the turbulence and serenity amidst the storm with this category where words become a soothing balm for the soul’s wanderings.
These poetic whispers will be your guide as you navigate the complexities of life, reminding you to savor each moment and find solace in the gentle rhythm of being.
“Calm” by Charles Baudelaire
Have patience, O my sorrow, and be still.
You asked for night: it falls: it is here.
A shadowy atmosphere enshrouds the hill,
to some men bringing peace, to others care.
While the vile human multitude
goes to earn remorse, in servile pleasure’s play,
under the lash of joy, the torturer, who
is pitiless, Sadness, come, far away:
Give me your hand. See, where the lost years
lean from the balcony in their outdated gear,
where regret, smiling, surges from the watery deeps.
Underneath some archway, the dying light
sleeps, and, like a long shroud trailing from the East,
listen, dear one, listen to the soft onset of night.
“Calm Twilight! in thy wild and stilly time” by Rev. Norman Pinney
Calm Twilight! in thy wild and stilly time,
When summer flowers their perfumes shed around,
And naught, save the deep, solitary sound
Of some far bell is heard, with solemn chime
Tolling for vespers, or the evening bird,
Carolling music in the shady grove,
Sweet as the pure outpourings of first love,
While not a leaf by Zephyr’s breath is stirred,—
Bright thoughts of those beloved and dearest come,
Like sunset rays upon the azure wave;
And joys which blossomed in the bower of home
The dews of memory with freshness lave.
O, that my last day-beams of life would shine,
As mildly beautiful, calm hour, as thine!
“Calm Be Thy Sleep.” by Thomas Moore
Calm be thy sleep as infant’s slumbers!
Pure as angel thoughts thy dreams!
May every joy this bright world numbers
Shed o’er thee their mingled beams!
Or if, where Pleasure’s wing hath glided,
There ever must some pang remain,
Still be thy lot with me divided,–
Thine all the bliss and mine the pain!
Day and night my thoughts shall hover
Round thy steps where’er they stray;
As, even when clouds his idol cover,
Fondly the Persian tracks its ray.
If this be wrong, if Heaven offended
By worship to its creature be,
Then let my vows to both be blended,
Half breathed to Heaven and half to thee.
“The Peace Autumn” by John Greenleaf Whittier
Thank God for rest, where none molest,
And none can make afraid;
For Peace that sits as Plenty’s guest
Beneath the homestead shade!
Bring pike and gun, the sword’s red scourge,
The negro’s broken chains,
And beat them at the blacksmith’s forge
To ploughshares for our plains.
Alike henceforth our hills of snow,
And vales where cotton flowers;
All streams that flow, all winds that blow,
Are Freedom’s motive-powers.
Henceforth to Labor’s chivalry
Be knightly honors paid;
For nobler than the sword’s shall be
The sickle’s accolade.
Build up an altar to the Lord,
O grateful hearts of ours!
And shape it of the greenest sward
That ever drank the showers.
Lay all the bloom of gardens there,
And there the orchard fruits;
Bring golden grain from sun and air,
From earth her goodly roots.
There let our banners droop and flow,
The stars uprise and fall;
Our roll of martyrs, sad and slow,
Let sighing breezes call.
Their names let hands of horn and tan
And rough-shod feet applaud,
Who died to make the slave a man,
And link with toil reward.
There let the common heart keep time
To such an anthem sung
As never swelled on poet’s rhyme,
Or thrilled on singer’s tongue.
Song of our burden and relief,
Of peace and long annoy;
The passion of our mighty grief
And our exceeding joy!
A song of praise to Him who filled
The harvests sown in years,
And gave each field a double yield
To feed our battle-years!
A song of faith that trusts the end
To match the good begun,
Nor doubts the power of Love to blend
The hearts of men as one
“The Great Calm” by Godfrey Thring
Fierce raged the tempest o’er the deep,
Watch did Thine anxious servants keep,
But Thou wast wrapt in guileless sleep,
Calm and still.
“Save, Lord, we perish,” was their cry:
“O save us in our agony!”
Thy word above the storm rose high,—
“Peace, be still!”
The wild winds hushed; the angry deep
Sank, like a little child, to sleep,
The sullen billows ceased to leap,
At Thy will.
So, when our life is clouded o’er,
And storm-winds drift us from the shore,
Say, lest we sink to rise no more,
“Peace, be still!”
“Becalmed” by Adam Bernard Mickiewicz
The flag is listless, limp. It dances not.
As deep the sea breathes from a gentle breast
As any bride who dreams at love’s behest,
And wakes and sighs, then casts with dreams her lot.
Sails hang upon the masts–useless-forgot–
Like folded standards which the warriors wrest
And bring home broken from the battle’s crest.
The sailors rest them in some sheltered spot.
O Sea! within your unknown deeps concealed,
When storms are wild, your monsters dream and sleep,
And all their cruelty for the sunlight keep.
Thus, Soul of Mine, in your sad deeps concealed
The monsters sleep–when wild are storms. They start
From out some blue sky’s peace to seize my heart.
From “In Memoriam A.H.H” by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only thro’ the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
And on these dews that drench the furze,
And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
From “Lines on the Death of Mrs. Stuart” by Harriet Beecher Stowe
How quiet, through the hazy autumn air,
The elm-boughs wave with many a gold-flecked leaf!
How calmly float the dreamy mantled clouds
Through these still days of autumn, fair and brief!
Our Andover stands thoughtful, fair, and calm,
Waiting to lay her summer glories by
E’er the bright flush shall kindle all her pines,
And her woods blaze with autumn’s heraldry.
By the old mossy wall the golden-rod
Waves as aforetime, and the purple sprays
Of starry asters quiver to the breeze,
Rustling all stilly through the forest ways.
No voice of triumph from those silent skies
Breaks on the calm, and speaks of glories near,
Nor bright wings flutter, nor fair glistening robes
Proclaim that heavenly messengers are here.
Yet in our midst an angel hath come down,
Troubling the waters in a peaceful home;
And from that home, of life’s long sickness healed,
A saint hath risen, where pain no more may come.
Christ’s fair elect one, from a hidden life
Of loving deeds and words of gentleness,
Hath passed where all are loving and beloved,
Beyond all weariness and all distress.
Calm, like a lamb in shepherd’s bosom borne,
Quiet and trustful hath she sunk to rest;
God breathed in tenderness the sweet “Well done!”
That scarce awoke a trance so still and blest.
Ye who remember the long loving years,
The patient mother’s hourly martyrdom,
The self-renouncing wisdom, the calm trust,
Rejoice for her whose day of rest is come!
“The Calm” by John Donne
Our storm is past, and that storm’s tyrannous rage,
A stupid calm, but nothing it, doth ’suage.
The fable is inverted, and far more
A block afflicts, now, than a stork before.
Storms chafe, and soon wear out themselves, or us;
In calms, Heaven laughs to see us languish thus.
As steady’as I can wish that my thoughts were,
Smooth as thy mistress’ glass, or what shines there,
The sea is now; and, as the isles which we
Seek, when we can move, our ships rooted be.
As water did in storms, now pitch runs out;
As lead, when a fir’d church becomes one spout.
And all our beauty, and our trim, decays,
Like courts removing, or like ended plays.
The fighting-place now seamen’s rags supply;
And all the tackling is a frippery.
No use of lanthorns; and in one place lay
Feathers and dust, to-day and yesterday.
Earth’s hollownesses, which the world’s lungs are,
Have no more wind than the upper vault of air.
We can nor lost friends nor sought foes recover,
But meteor-like, save that we move not, hover.
Only the calenture together draws
Dear friends, which meet dead in great fishes’ jaws;
And on the hatches, as on altars, lies
Each one, his own priest, and own sacrifice.
Who live, that miracle do multiply,
Where walkers in hot ovens do not die.
If in despite of these we swim, that hath
No more refreshing than our brimstone bath;
But from the sea into the ship we turn,
Like parboil’d wretches, on the coals to burn.
Like Bajazet encag’d, the shepherds’ scoff,
Or like slack-sinew’d Samson, his hair off,
Languish our ships. Now as a myriad
Of ants durst th’ emperor’s lov’d snake invade,
The crawling gallies, sea-gaols, finny chips,
Might brave our pinnaces, now bed-rid ships.
Whether a rotten state, and hope of gain,
Or to disuse me from the queasy pain
Of being belov’d and loving, or the thirst
Of honour, or fair death, out-push’d me first,
I lose my end; for here, as well as I,
A desperate may live, and a coward die.
Stag, dog, and all which from or towards flies,
Is paid with life or prey, or doing dies.
Fate grudges us all, and doth subtly lay
A scourge, ’gainst which we all forget to pray.
He that at sea prays for more wind, as well
Under the poles may beg cold, heat in hell.
What are we then? How little more, alas,
Is man now, than before he was? He was
Nothing; for us, we are for nothing fit;
Chance, or ourselves, still disproportion it.
We have no power, no will, no sense; I lie,
I should not then thus feel this misery.