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.

A sound commences in my left ear like the sound of the sea in a shell; a downward, vertiginous drag comes with it. Time to head home.

And already still November Drapes her snowy table here. Fetch a log, then; coax the ember; Fill your hearts with old-time cheer; Heaven be thanked for one more year.

I didn’t know I was grateful For such late-autumn Bent-up cornfields Yellow in the after-harvest Sun before the Cold plow turns it all over.

How silently they tumble down And come to rest upon the ground To lay a carpet, rich and rare, Beneath the trees without a care.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, Are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, The world offers itself to your imagination.

The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter wools.

There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings, as now in October.

You belong among the wildflowers You belong in a boat out at sea You belong with your love on your arm You belong somewhere you feel free.

The wind and welkin and wave are ours Wherever our bourne is found, And we envy no landsman his dream and sleep When we’re off to the fishing ground.

No one can tell me, Nobody knows, Where the wind comes from,Where the wind goes. It’s flying from somewhere As fast as it can, I couldn’t keep up with it, Not if I ran.

Tivoli Girl, Don’t you hear the music play? If you’ll be my pal in the summertime Down beside the ocean blue, When the snow flies Tivoli Girl, I’ll be dreaming of you.