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.

We’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, 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.

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.

It’s a natural thing for women to lead . . . Same thing with most Native American tribes. You didn’t see the women or hear them, but they ruled the tribe.

But there’s a full moon rising Let’s go dancing in the light We know where the music’s playing Let’s go out and feel the night.

Although it is a cold evening, Down by one of the fishhouses An old man sits netting, His net, in the gloaming almost invisible.

The mist has left the greening plain, The dew-drops shine like fairy rain, The coquette rose awakes again Her lovely self adorning.

Don’t tell fish stories where the people know you; but particularly, don’t tell them where they know the fish.

Sweet smell of phlox drifting across the lawn — An early warning of the end of summer. August is fading fast, and by September The little purple flowers will all be gone.

The day, immeasurably long, sleeps over the broad hills and the warm wide fields. To have lived through all its sunny hours seems longevity enough.

Forget there are any political rings Just think of the butter and eggs and things; So wash off the buggy and hitch up the mare, And we’ll all go out to the county fair.

The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

The sea froths white In the beach grass, Piling the wet sand Into dunes, Covering the land My father used to mow.

Now I am here, later I will be there. I will be that small cloud, staring down at the water, the one that stalls, that lifts its white legs, that looks like a lamb.

We’ll go in the morning, that is, if it’s clear, And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet. It’s so long since I picked I almost forget How we used to pick berries.