At Great Pond The sun, rising, Scrapes his orange breast On the thick pines, And down tumble A few orange feathers into The dark water.

The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.

There are the mud-flowers of dialect And the immortelles of perfect pitch And that moment when the bird sings very close To the music of what happens.

In the dog days of summer as muslin curls on its own heat And crickets cry in the black walnut tree The wind lifts up my life And sets it some distance from where it was.

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.

This is America, This vast, confused beauty, This staring, restless speed of loveliness, Mighty, overwhelming, crude, of all forms, Making grandeur out of profusion.

Winter is cold-hearted, Spring is yea and nay, Autumn is a weather cock Blown every way. Summer days for me When every leaf is on its tree.

My father moved through theys of we, Singing each new leaf out of each tree (And every child was sure that spring Danced when she heard my father sing).

If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run – Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

There’s crimson buds, and white and blue, The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers.

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, And on its outer point, some miles away, The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d, And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue-bird’s warble know, The yellow violet’s modest bell Peeps from the last year’s leaves below.

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

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

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here All simply in the springing of the year.

Who planted daffodils In this rough, briary place? A woman once lived here A housewife, a poet. We have forgotten her blueberry pies, Her household ways, her verses.

Who planted daffodils in this rough, briary place? A woman once lived here A housewife, a poet. We have forgotten her blueberry pies, Her houshold ways, her verses.

I want to be famous to shuffling men Who smile while crossing streets Sticky children in grocery lines, Famous as the one who smiled back.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You’re one month on in the middle of May.