A moondew stars her hanging hair And moonlight kisses her young brow And, gathering, she sings an air: Fair as the wave is, fair, art thou!

Midnight on a carousel ride Reaching for the gold ring Down inside Never could reach it, just slips away But I try.

March is the month of expectation, The things we do not know, The Persons of prognostication Are coming now.

Beauty is everlasting. And winter’s burial is not. Underneath cold winter bone, the flesh of summer sleeps.

Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells, Pumping in my living room.

What is love? ’Tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What’s to come is still unsure; In delay there lies no plenty.

Too beautiful to go back to sleep The morning sprite before the sun Black silhouetted trees that edge the world Respeak stillness as night’s undone.

Little January Tapped at my door today. And said, “Put on your winter wraps, And come outdoors to play.” Little January Is always full of fun; Until the set of sun.

Bare branches of each tree On this chilly January morn Look so cold so forlorn. Gray skies dip ever so low Left from yesterday’s dusting of snow.

The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.

There are two seasonal diversions that can ease the bite of any winter. One is the January thaw. The other is the seed catalogues.

The clock is crouching, dark and small, Like a time bomb in the hall. Hark! It’s midnight, children dear. Duck! Here comes another year.

little tree little silent Christmas tree you are so little you are more like a flower who found you in the green forest and were you very sorry to come away?

Light the first of eight tonight — The farthest candle to the right. Light the first and second, too, When tomorrow’s day is through.

Come, come thou bleak December wind, And blow the dry leaves from the tree! Flash, like a Love-thought, thro’me, Death And take a Life that wearies me.

And so the theme should swell and grow As weeks and months pass o’er us, And rise sublime at this good time, A grand Thanksgiving chorus.

The ground is hard, As hard as stone. The year is old, The birds are flown. And yet the world, In its distress, Displays a certain Loveliness.

Dead leaves danced in spiral whirls under naked trees, till the wind, sighing profoundly, laid them to rest in the hollows of bare valleys.

With night coming early, And dawn coming late, And ice in the bucket And frost by the gate. The fires burn And the kettles sing, And earth sinks to rest Until next spring.

On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon.