Robins sing and maple sap rises, but the peepers in full voice are the ancient and triumphant cry of life enduring.

Underneath my outside face There’s a face that none can see. A little less smiley, A little less sure, But a whole lot more like me.

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

Thirty days hath September, April, June and November. All the rest have thirty-one, Excepting February alone, And that has twenty-eight days clear And twenty-nine in each leap year.

The whistle of a boat Calls and cries unendingly, Like some lost child In tears and trouble Hunting the harbor’s breast And the harbor’s eyes.

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.

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

Desiring your bright hands In the penumbra of the flame: Smelling of oak and of rose; of death. Ancient winter.

The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.

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.

In winter All the singing is in The tops of the trees Where the wind-bird With its white eyes Shoves and pushes Among the branches Like any of us.

Only a night from old to new; Only a sleep from night to morn. The new is but the old come true; Each sunrise sees a new year born.

The clock is crouching, dark and small, Like a time bomb in the hall. Hark! It’s midnight, children dear. Duck! Here comes another year.

Light, life and love always begin with the individual I can see the glass half empty or half full When the sun shatters the darkness of night, and we rise to a new day.

I love you Because no two snowflakes are alike And it is possible If you stand tippy-toe To walk between the raindrops.

The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me And I cannot, cannot go.

Chattin’ an’ braggin’ a bit with the men, Buildin’ the old family circle again; Livin’ the wholesome an’ old-fashioned cheer, Just for awhile at the end of the year.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run.

Someday this will be called an artifact, The spine of an old ship, hardened by the sea, Built to remain for centuries intact And beautiful because it had to be.

How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn.