In the summer I stretch out on the shore And think of you Had I told the sea What I felt for you, It would have left its shores, Its shells, Its fish, And followed me.

Only a dad, but he gives his all To smooth the way for his children small, Doing, with courage stern and grim, The deeds that his father did for him.

The windows of a classroom always open To the future, but in our innocence we thought it was only landscape We were seeing from the window.

The rain streams down like harp-strings from the sky; The wind, that world-old harpist, sitteth by; And ever as he sings his low refrain, He plays upon the harp-strings of the rain.

Morning’s at seven; The hill-side’s dew-pearled; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in his Heaven — All’s right with the world!

may came home with a smooth round stone as small as a world and as large as alone. For whatever we lose (like a you or a me) it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.

Early on I was hoping for a strike Of some huge striped bass to fight, But now, to hell with fishing, I would rather stand here casting.

The deepest-rooted dream of a tree is to walk Even just a little ways, from the place next to the doorway — To the edge of the river of life, and drink.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide.

To stand at the edge of the sea, to sense the ebb and flow of the tides, to feel the breath of a mist, is to have knowledge of things that are as nearly eternal as any earthly life can be.

What matter if the sun be lost? What matter though the sky be gray? There’s joy enough about the house, For Daffodil comes home to-day.

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.

You may say I'm a dreamer But I'm not the only one I hope someday you'll join us And the world will be as one.

Who knocks? That April — Lock the Door — I will not be pursued — He stayed away a Year to call When I am occupied.

There is no time like Spring, When life’s alive in everything, Before new nestlings sing, Before cleft swallows speed their journey back Along the trackless track.

Dear March, how are you, and the Rest — Did you leave Nature well — Oh March, Come right upstairs with me — I have so much to tell.

The ultimate wisdom which deals with beginnings, remains locked in a seed. There it lies, the simplest fact of the universe and at the same time the one which calls faith rather than reason.

I go down to the edge of the sea. How everything shines in the morning light! The cusp of the whelk, the broken cupboard of the clam, the opened, blue mussels.

You break a cookie in half like bread And this sharing is what we both now need. That which breaks into crumbs are memories. Your gray hair cut short and you ask if I notice.

Oh plunge me deep in love—put out My senses, leave me deaf and blind, Swept by the tempest of your love, A taper in a rushing wind.