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

Across the lonely beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry.

Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and gloaming, on sea and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.

I thought of you and how you love this beauty, And walking up the long beach all alone I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder As you and I once heard their monotone.

A boat, beneath a sunny sky Lingering onward dreamily In an evening of July – Children three that nestle near, Eager eye and willing ear, Pleased a simple tale to hear.

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles.

Great is the sun, and wide he goes Through empty heaven with repose; And in the blue and glowing days More thick than rain he showers his rays.

That beautiful season the Summer! Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin, Just take off your coat and go to it; Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing That ‘cannot be done,’ and you’ll do it.

Wisteria woke me this morning, And there was all June in the garden; I felt them, early, warning Lest I miss any part of the day.

What is so sweet and dear As a prosperous morn in May, The confident prime of the day, And the dauntless youth of the year.

The wind is tossing the lilacs, The new leaves laugh in the sun, And the petals fall on the orchard wall, But for me the spring is done.

(Home is) a place we carry inside ourselves, a place where we welcome the unfamiliar because we know that as time passes it will become the very bedrock of our being.

Then it poured, A storm that walked on legs of lightning, Dragging its shaggy belly over the fields. The meadowlarks are back, and the finches Are turning from green to gold.

A cold spring: the violet was flawed on the lawn. For two weeks or more the trees hesitated; the little leaves waited, carefully indicating their characteristics.

The more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us, the less taste we shall have for destruction.

Come and let us seek together Springtime lore of daffodils, Giving to the golden weather Greeting on the sun-warm hills.

A light is laughing thro’ the scattered rain, A color quickens in the meadow; Drops are still, upon the window-pane — They cast a silver shadow.

What did she tell me of that house of hers? White gatepost; terrace; fanlight of the door; A widow’s walk above the bouldered shore; Salt winds that ruffle the surrounding firs.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.