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?

Remember you are all people and all people are you. Remember you are this universe and this universe is you. Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.

That beautiful season the Summer! Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

A single flow’r he sent me, since we met. All tenderly his messenger he chose; Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet — One perfect rose.

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.