Rest, comrades, rest and sleep! The thoughts of men shall be As sentinels to keep Your rest from danger free.

Among your heart-shaped leaves Orange orioles hop like music-box birds and sing Their little weak soft songs; In the crooks of your branches.

The angels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of “Mother”.

If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now, It’s just a spring clean for the May queen.

Hark, I hear a robin calling! List, the wind is from the south! And the orchard-bloom is falling Sweet as kisses on the mouth.

Keep close to Nature's heart . . . and break clear away, once in awhile, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.

Democracy cannot succeed unless those who express their choice are prepared to choose wisely. The real safeguard of democracy, therefore, is education.

Spring, hold back the sun, Hold back the gentle rain, Let the wind blow greedy Gusts against the branches Until the treetops rattle And the buds are hard.

Although it is a cold evening, down by one of the fishhouses, an old man sits netting, his net, in the gloaming almost invisible.

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends.

Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water’s roar? And tumble out your hair.

Though I am silent There is singing around me. Though I am dark There is vision around me. Though I am heavy There is flight around me.

Indoors or out, no one relaxes in March, that month of wind and taxes, the wind will presently disappear, the taxes last us all the year.

The whistle of a boat Calls and cries unendingly, Like some lost child In tears and trouble Hunting the harbor's breast And the harbor's eyes.

All pleasures and all pains, remembering The bough of summer and the winter branch. These are the measures destined for her soul. 

All Thoughts, all Passions, all Delights, Whatever stirs this mortal Frame, All are but Ministers of Love, And feed this sacred flame. 

What a field-day for the heat A thousand people in the street Singing songs and carrying signs Mostly say, hooray for our side.

Winter migrants gather In long black lines Along a silver sleek Heads held back, Throats Thrust toward An onshore rush.

I raise up my voice — not so I can shout, but so that those without a voice can be heard . . . we cannot succeed when half of us are held back.

Be not defeated by the rain, Nor let the wind prove your better. Succumb not to the snows of winter. Nor be bested by the heat of summer.