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.

And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?

I spot the hills With yellow balls in autumn. I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins.

A dried leaf crumbles at a touch, But I have seen many Autumns With herons blowing like smoke Across the sky.

The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mold The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.

The day is yet one more yellow leaf and without turning I kiss the light by an old well on the last of the month gathering wild rose hips in the sun.

I stand as the black water Of each wave’s backwash Hugs my hip boots Making little stars of light As the water “fires” around my legs.

For man, autumn is a time of harvest, of gathering together. For nature, it is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad.

As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away, — Too imperceptible, at last, To seem like perfidy.

Blue poured into summer blue, A hawk broke from his cloudless tower, The roof of the silo blazed, and I knew That part of my life was over.