The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry’s cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town.

The world is a mist. And then the world is minute and vast and clear. The tide is higher or lower. He couldn’t tell you which.

Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow, But it were vain to tell her so, And they are better for her praise.

On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon.

Nobody’s here — Only skunks, that search In the moonlight for a bite to eat. They march on their soles up Main Street: white stripes, moonstruck eyes’ red fire.

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

Delicious autumn!  My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.

I’ll tell you where the four winds sleep Like four lean hounds the lighthouse keep Wildflower seed in the sand and wind May the four winds blow you home again.

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

Although you hide in the ebb and flow Of the pale tide when the moon has set, The people of coming days will know About the casting out of my net.

The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel — Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such.

Now the time has come to leave you One more time Let me kiss you Then close your eyes I’ll be on my way.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths! O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb!

She is a friend of my mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order.

 Summer, do your worst! Light your tinsel moon, and call on Your performing stars to fall on Headlong through your paper sky. 

I envy the farmer's boy Who sings as he follows the plow; While the shining green of the young blades lean To the breezes that cool his brow.

High in the evening elm the robin tries his notes . . . To sleep, to sleep, while star by star the sky opens, and far and high eternity rides by.

Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin.

I’m a sailor ashore with stories to tell Who will hear me I pray? I have a voice and a soul all alone. Who will lend me a moment of ear?