The year, whose hopes were high and strong, Has now no hopes to wake; Yet one hour more of jest and song For his familiar sake.
—William Cullen BryantI heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play And wild and sweet the words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
—Henry Wadsworth LongfellowIt is the festival of lights, I have no candles. I light one for each night, pray on a row of nine lighthouses.
—Rachel GalvinThe world tonight is clear, If only for an hour Orion’s belt encircling us, The far indigo ocean Thundering near And I remember Rain the alley No shortcut home.
—Rose StyronMeanwhile 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.
—Mary OliverWe lie on the cold sand and it embraces us, this beach where locals never go in summer and boast of their absence.
—Marge PiercyWith incense sweet our thanks ascend; Before thy works our powers pall; Though we should strive years without end, We could not thank thee for them all.
—Paul Laurence DunbarThe water sings along our keel, The wind falls to a whispering breath; I look into your eyes and feel No fear of life or death; So near is love, so far away The losing strife of yesterday.
—Sophie JewettWith 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.
—Elizabeth CoatsworthI saw Lon Chaney Jr. walking with the Queen, Doin’ the werewolves of London I saw a werewolf drinkin’ a piña colada at Trader Vic’s And his hair was perfect.
—Warren ZevonAgain the wind Flakes gold-leaf from the trees And the painting darkens — As if a thousand penitents Kissed an icon Till it thinned.
—Jane HirshfieldThat a great blue heron Should sail over my house each evening And circle the wet fire of the marsh, Concentrically spiralling down, Is near to holiness for me.
—Marion LineaweaverThe fields lie wrapt in autumn dreams, Beneath the dim, blue vault of night, The moon, like a bark on sluggish streams, Spreads soft her sail of silver light.
—Sadakichi HartmannThe day is yet one more yellow leaf And without turning I kiss the light By an old well on the last of the month Gathering wild rose hips In the sun.
—W.S. MerwinFull-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
—John KeatsA boy and his dad on a fishing trip — There is a glorious fellowship! Father and son and the open sky, And the white clouds lazily drifting by.
—Edgar Albert GuestThe breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel — Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such.
—John UpdikeThe grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer.
—Sara TeasdaleA languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze, With labored respiration, moves the wheat From distant reaches, till the golden seas Break in crisp whispers at my feet.
—James Whitcomb RileyWhy all the embarrassment About being happy? Sometimes I’m as happy As a sleeping dog, And for the same reasons, And for others.
—Wendell Berry