The wheel is ready to turn again. When you have gone it will light up, The shadow of the spokes to drown Your departure where the summer knells.

It is a real chill out, The genuine thing. I am not deceived, I do not think it is still summer Because sun stays and birds continue to sing.

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies, And here on earth come emulating flies, That though they never equal stars in size, (And they were never really stars at heart.)

The stillness of the cup and the water in it, The silence of the moon And the quiet of the day far from the roar of the sun.

In the dog days of summer as muslin curls on its own heat And crickets cry in the black walnut tree The wind lifts up my life And sets it some distance from where it was.

If sky and ocean had the means To pool their very bluest genes, Their brightest babies, one assumes, Would look like bachelor-button blooms.

But happiness floats. It doesn’t need you to hold it down. It doesn’t need anything. Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing, and disappears when it wants to.

And now the crickets plug in their appliances in unison, and then the fireflies flash dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation.

Sea’s stony greenblue shatters to white In a running swell under noonsky of cloudlight Where on a foamed-over cropping of rock A band of oystercatchers faces all one way.

The dandelions and buttercups gild all the lawn: the drowsy bee stumbles among the clover tops, and summer sweetens all to me.

All these sounds and sights of water Are a symphony to me — A voice that still reminds me I’m adrift without the sea.

A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip — Builders of life’s companionship! Oh, I envy them, as I see them there Under the sky in the open air.

And if you voz to see my roziz As is a boon to all men’s noziz, — You’d fall upon your back and scream — O Lawk! O criky! it’s a dream!

This walking on and on, This going and coming — This morning shines such lovely light on all of us We're home.

Ten o’clock: the broken moon Hangs not yet a half hour high, Yellow as a shield of brass, In the dewy air of June, Poised between the vaulted sky And the ocean’s liquid glass.

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.