Come and let us seek together Springtime lore of daffodils, Giving to the golden weather Greeting on the sun-warm hills.

A light is laughing thro’ the scattered rain, A color quickens in the meadow; Drops are still, upon the window-pane — They cast a silver shadow.

What did she tell me of that house of hers? White gatepost; terrace; fanlight of the door; A widow’s walk above the bouldered shore; Salt winds that ruffle the surrounding firs.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

Today is the day when daffodils bloom, Which children pick to fill the room, Today is the day when grasses green, When leaves burst forth for spring to be seen.

Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

They still wear last summer’s leaves The lightest brown almost translucent How their stubbornness has decorated The winter woods.

Thirty seconds of waves colliding. Kelp with its open attitudes, Seals riding the swells, curved in a row Just under the water.

House without air, I leave you and lock your door. Wild swans, come over the town, come over The town again, trailing your legs and crying! 

The snow is dear to me; and the moon rising; and the silver sea. With my robes I cover the speckled hen’s eggs and the brindled sea shell 

Sometimes the mist overhangs my path, And blackening clouds about me cling; But, oh, I have a magic way To turn the gloom to cheerful day – I softly sing.

For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. 

Fairy snow, fairy snow, Blowing, blowing everywhere, Would that I Too, could fly Lightly, lightly through the air.

Hand in hand, we Will go forward toward nothing While our clothes darken And our faces stream With the sweet waters Of heaven.

Children’s fingerprints On a frozen window Of a small schoolhouse An empire, I read somewhere, Maintains itself through The cruelty of its prisons.

So much of any year is flammable, Lists of vegetables, partial poems Orange swirling flame of days, So little is a stone.

Though some churls at our mirth repine, Round your foreheads garlands twine, Drown sorrow in a cup of wine, And let us all be merry.

Plovers that stoop to sanctify the land And scoop small, roundy mangers in the sand, Swaddle a saviour each in a speckled shell.

But it is winter with your love; I scatter crumbs upon the sill, And close the window, — and the birds May take or leave them, as they will.

I heard a bird sing In the dark of December A magical thing And sweet to remember. We are nearer to Spring Than we were in September.