The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You’re one month on in the middle of May.

O how I long to see her with me alive and well, Her heart and mine was united, Love and feelings deeply rooted for each other, She and I could never part.

Nathless the sacred shrine is holy yet, With its lone floors where reverent feet once trod. Take off your shoes as by the burning bush, Before the mystery of death and God.

A light exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period.When March is scarcely here A color stands abroad On solitary hills That science cannot overtake, But human nature feels.

The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing Where I go. I hear the noise of many waters Far below. All day, all night, I hear them flowing To and fro.

Blue numbers on my bedside clock Tell I forgot to change the hour.This sets routines on haywire. Like a domestic goat staked To its circle of earth. I don’t do well untethered.

It was cold and windy, scarcely the day to take a walk on that long beach Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken.

Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies. And be it gash or gold it will not come Again in this identical disguise.

You’re the life principle, more or less, so get going on a little optimism around here. Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

 She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.

Ah, he starts to Stir. With drowsy Stare Looks from his burrow Out on fields of Snow. What’s there? Oh no. His shadow.

The fields are infertile as far as I can tell. Their winter systems sparkle like the diamonds that pelt Neptune.

(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.

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

In winter All the singing is in The tops of the trees Where the wind-bird With its white eyes Shoves and pushes Among the branches.

The new years come, the old years go, We know we dream, we dream we know. We rise up laughing with the light, We lie down weeping with the night.

The angels came from heaven high, And they were clad with wings; And lo, they brought a joyful song The host of heaven sings.

Then the Menorah once again Illumed the holy shrine, One little flask of sacred oil, Saved unpolluted from the spoil Supplied the light divine.

Carols sung out in the snow, A Snowman built with eyes aglow, Crackers pulled, a song to sing, Candles lit, and bells that ring.

Only the tree-tops bare Crowning the hill, Clear-cut in perfect air Warn us that still Winter, the aged chief, Mighty in power, Exiles the tender leaf, Exiles the flower.