December 18, 2015

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

—Anne Stevenson


December 11, 2015

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.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay


December 4, 2015

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.

—Oliver Herford


November 27, 2015

See the geese in chevron flight Flapping and racing on before the snow They got the urge for going And they got the wings so they can go.

—Joni Mitchell


November 13, 2015

With night coming early, And dawn coming late, And ice in the bucket And frost by the gate. The fires burn And the kettles sing, And earth sinks to rest Until next spring.

—Elizabeth Coatsworth


November 6, 2015

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders Fields.

—John McCrae


October 30, 2015

And the wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.

—Maurice Sendak


October 23, 2015

The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter wools.

—Henry Beston


October 16, 2015

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.

—William Cullen Bryant


October 9, 2015

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.

—John Keats


October 2, 2015

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.

—W.S. Merwin


September 25, 2015

Although it is a cold evening, Down by one of the fishhouses An old man sits netting, His net, in the gloaming almost invisible, A dark purple-brown.

—Elizabeth Bishop


September 18, 2015

Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days.

—Alfred Lord Tennyson


September 11, 2015

Names written in the pale sky. Names rising in the updraft amid buildings. Names silent in stone Or cried out behind a door. Names blown over the earth and out to sea.

—Billy Collins


September 4, 2015

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.

—Stanley Kunitz


August 28, 2015

The holidays were fruitful, but must end; One August evening had a cooler breath; Into each mind intruding duties crept; Under the cinders burned the fires of home.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson


August 21, 2015

Forget there are any political rings Just think of the butter and eggs and things; So wash off the buggy and hitch up the mare, And we’ll all go out to the county fair.

—Edwin C. Ranck


August 14, 2015

Near the shore’s arm of dune that holds the pond, A kayak glides, Someone seeking peace And looking up to find it in the sky.

—Margaret Howe Freydberg


August 7, 2015

At Great Pond The sun, rising, Scrapes his orange breast On the thick pines, And down tumble A few orange feathers into The dark water.

—Mary Oliver


July 31, 2015

The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.

—William Cullen Bryant


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