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.

Like stars, or the feathers Of some unimaginable bird That loves us, That is asleep now, and silent — That has turned itself Into snow.

The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me And I cannot, cannot go.

Little January Tapped at my door today. And said, “Put on your winter wraps, And come outdoors to play.

So much of any year is flammable, Lists of vegetables, partial poems Orange swirling flame of days, So little is a stone.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

The coasting crowd upon the hill With some new spirit seems to thrill; And all the temple bells achime. Ring out the glee of Christmas time.

who found you in the green forest and were you very sorry to come away? see i will comfort you because you smell so sweetly.

A film of mist clings to the storm windows As the thunder gets pocketed and carried away In the rain’s dark overcoat. A good reading night.

We lie on the cold sand and it embraces us, this beach where locals never go in summer and boast of their absence.

But blessings are like friends, I hold, Who love and labor near us. We ought to raise our notes of praise While living hearts can hear us.

Citizens all, they move their hands over the humble, battered body of the nation, while their fingers make full utterance: I want, I want.

I am a firm believer in the people. If given the truth, they can be depended upon to meet any national crisis. The great point is to bring them the real facts, and beer.

Ninety feet between home plate and first base may be the closest man has ever come to perfection.

O hushed October morning mild, Thy leaves have ripened to the fall; Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild, Should waste them all.

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.

Child-crafted clouds, all sheen and fleece and curlicues, As a girl, with her tongue in her teeth, would have made them, The point of her crayon squashed against the page.