Pink to the peach and pink to the apple, White to the pear. Stars are come to the dogwood, Astral, pale; Mists are pink on the red-bud, Veil after veil.

Wisteria woke me this morning, And there was all June in the garden; I felt them, early, warning Lest I miss any part of the day.

Oh! that we two were Maying Down the stream of the soft spring breeze; Like children with violets playing, In the shade of the whispering trees.

The wind is tossing the lilacs, The new leaves laugh in the sun, And the petals fall on the orchard wall, But for me the spring is done.

O day after day we can’t help growing older Year after year spring can’t help seeming younger Come let’s enjoy our winecup today, Nor pity the flowers fallen.

There’s a Polar Bear in our Frigidaire—He likes it ‘cause it’s cold in there. With his seat in the meat, And his face in the fish, And his big hairy paws In the buttery dish.

The scarlet maple-keys betray what potent blood hath modest May; What fiery force the earth renews, the wealth of forms, the flush of hues; Joy shed in rosy waves abroad.

The Lindt Easter bunny You said was “solid” Chocolate turned out To be hollow — its head Caved in when I peeled Back the gold foil.

. . . Oceanward I am ever yearning, Where far it rolls in its calm and grandeur, The weight of mountain-like fogbanks bearing, Forever wandering and returning.

And Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

And then the halcyon late mornings After the fog burns off And the sun paints white houses With the sea light of Greece.

This way the dust, that way the dust. I listen to both sides But I keep right on. I remember the leaves sitting in judgment And then winter.

 Oh, mercy! music may be bliss But not in such a shape as this, When all I do, and all I say, Begins and ends in Patrick’s Day.

An extra yawn one morning in the springtime, an extra snooze one night in the autumn is all that we ask in return for dazzling gifts.

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

Home is a place we carry inside ourselves, a place where we welcome the unfamiliar because we know that as time passes it will become the very bedrock of our being.

America, you great unfinished symphony, you sent for me. You let me make a difference. A place where even orphan immigrants can leave their fingerprints and rise up.

This thing, Called love, I just can’t handle it, This thing, Called love, I must get round to it, I ain’t ready, Crazy little thing called love.

Wood smoke in the valley Blends with the scent of snow, And winter Crystal quiet, Grips the ground below.

This way the dust, that way the dust. I listen to both sides But I keep right on. I remember the leaves sitting in judgment And then winter.