The wind is tossing the lilacs, The new leaves laugh in the sun, And the petals fall on the orchard wall, But for me the spring is done.

My mother dandled me and sang, ‘How young it is, how young!’ And made a golden cradle That on a willow swung.

The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Our neighbor felled his Oak. My raspberry patch rejoiced. Spring showers’ gift will be unhindered. Add pine mulch, bumble bees and wait.

In every outthrust headland, in every curving beach, in every grain of sand there is the story of the earth.

The rain makes running pools in the gutter The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night And I love the rain.

Hark, I hear a robin calling! List, the wind is from the south! And the orchard-bloom is falling Sweet as kisses on the mouth.

Indoors or out, no one relaxes in March, that month of wind and taxes, the wind will presently disappear, the taxes last us all the year.

Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill.

In the depths of winter I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.

In spring when maple buds are red, We turn the clock an hour ahead; Which means, each April that arrives, We lose an hour out of our lives.

When March is scarcely here A color stands abroad On solitary hills That science cannot overtake, But human nature feels

The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red.

Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love’s day.

May you Open your eyes to water Water waving forever And may you in your innocence Sail through this to that.

“Where have all the flowers gone? Long time passing Where have all the flowers gone? Long time ago Where have all the flowers gone?

The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

There are two seasonal diversions that can ease the bite of any winter. One is the January thaw. The other is the seed catalogues.

The Old Year’s gone away To nothingness and night: We cannot find him all the day Nor hear him in the night.