When skies are deepest blue above, And flow’rs aflush, — then most I love To start, while early dews are damp, And wend my way in woodland tramp.

The Ocean has its silent caves, Deep, quiet, and alone; Though there be fury on the waves, Beneath them there is none.

So white, so green, so blue, so golden . . . so neat, so clean, frilled with the hues of fall flowers and growing grass . . .

Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied, That leaves only me to blame, 'cause Mama tried.

Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the origin of this universe. Remember you are all people and all people are you.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You’re one month on in the middle of May.

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.

O let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day thy victories: Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

Where am I going? I don’t quite know. Down to the stream where the king-cups grow Up on the hill where the pine-trees blow Anywhere, anywhere. I don’t know.

Music, sweet music, Cheers meadow and lea; In the song of the blackbird, The hum of the bee; The loud happy laughter Of children at play Proclaim how they worship Spring’s beautiful day.

The rackety, icy, offshore wind Numbed our faces on one side; Disrupted the formation Of a lone flight of Canada geese; And blew back the low, inaudible rollers In upright, steely mist.

And each succeeding day now longer grows. The birds a gladder music have begun, The squirrel, full of mischief and of fun, From maples’ topmost branch the brown twig throws.

The world is a beautiful place To be born into If you don’t mind happiness Not always being So very much fun.

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.

The flakes descend, Softly, without a sound that I can tell — When out of the further white a gull appears, Crosses the hollow place, and goes again…

The dry, black branches of winter seen in flight Run singing. Come here to drink Translucent drops on fresh leaves. Come over here, and try to light that wick.

I joy to see him come marching forth Begirt with the icicle gems of the north; But I like him best when he comes bedight In his velvet robes of stainless white.

But while democracy can be periodically delayed, It can never be permanently defeated. In this truth, in this faith, we trust. For while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us.

There comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe nor politic nor popular, but he must take it because his conscience tells him it is right.

Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free.