So much of any year is flammable, Lists of vegetables, partial poems Orange swirling flame of days, So little is a stone.

Though some churls at our mirth repine, Round your foreheads garlands twine, Drown sorrow in a cup of wine, And let us all be merry.

Plovers that stoop to sanctify the land And scoop small, roundy mangers in the sand, Swaddle a saviour each in a speckled shell.

But it is winter with your love; I scatter crumbs upon the sill, And close the window, — and the birds May take or leave them, as they will.

I heard a bird sing In the dark of December A magical thing And sweet to remember. We are nearer to Spring Than we were in September.

See the geese in chevron flight Flapping and racing on before the snow They got the urge for going And they got the wings so they can go.

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.

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders Fields.

And the wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.

The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter wools.

The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mold The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run.

The 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.

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

Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days.

Names written in the pale sky. Names rising in the updraft amid buildings. Names silent in stone Or cried out behind a door. Names blown over the earth and out to sea.

Blue poured into summer blue, A hawk broke from his cloudless tower, The roof of the silo blazed, and I knew That part of my life was over.

The holidays were fruitful, but must end; One August evening had a cooler breath; Into each mind intruding duties crept; Under the cinders burned the fires of home.

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.

Near the shore’s arm of dune that holds the pond, A kayak glides, Someone seeking peace And looking up to find it in the sky.