Cherokee prayer to respect and honor nature

"Let me walk in beauty and make my eyes behold the red and purple sunset. Make my hand respect the things you have made, my ears sharp to hear your voice. Make me wise, so that I may know the things you have taught my people, the lessons you have hidden in every rock and leaf." -Cherokee prayer, early 1800s

Wendell Berry

"I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief... For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free."

~ Wendell Berry

Some of his most awesome books:
The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry
A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997
Wendell Berry and the Cultivation of Life: A Reader's Guide
The Mad Farmer Poems
The Unsettling of America: Culture & Agriculture

From a book about Irish monasticism, some Celtic nature poetry:

I have a bothy in the wood--
none knows it save the Lord, my God;
one wall an ash, the other hazel,
and a great fern makes the door.

The doorposts are made of heather,
the lintel of honeysuckle;
and wild forest all around
yields mast for well-fed swine.

This size my hut: the smallest thing,
homestead amid well-trod paths;
a woman (but blackbird clothed and seeming)
warbles sweetly from its gable.

This little sweet humble place
holds tenure of the teeming woods;
maybe you will come to see?--
but alone I like quite happy.

Original Face:
Flowers in spring
Cuckoos in summer
Moon in autumn
Snow in winter
serene and cool

- Zen Master Dogen, 1247, translated by Sensei Kazuaki Tanahashi

"The man who does not know nature, who does not walk under the leaves as under his own roof, is partial and wounded. I say this even as wilderness and our indifference, Nature there will always be, but it will not be what we have now, much less the deeper fields and woodlands many of us remember from our childhood. The worlds of van Gogh and Turner and Winslow Homer, and Wordsworth too, and Frost and Jeffers and Whitman, are gone, and will not return. We can come to our senses yet, and rescue the world, but we will never return it to anything like its original form."

--Mary Oliver, Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems