Today is the day when bold kites fly When cumulus clouds roar across the sky. When robins return, when children cheer, When light rain beckons spring to appear.

But the ocean is filled with tears And the sea turns into a mirror There’s a whale in the moon when it’s clear And a bird on the tide.

I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.

To move, to breathe, to fly, to float, to gain all while you give, To roam the roads of lands remote: To travel is to live.

Sharp is the night, but stars with frost alive Leap off the rim of earth across the dome. It is a night to make the heavens our home.
 

love is more thicker than forget more thinner than recall more seldom than a wave is wet more frequent than to fail.

For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

No hawk hangs over in this air: The urgent snow is everywhere. The wing adroiter than a sail Must lean away from such a gale.

So, leave the crows perched along the tree line watching over us. Leave them be. The setting sun? Leave it be. For God’s sake, what could be easier.

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.

O Winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire, What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom turn Dismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urn Of death!

The door was shut, as doors should be, Before you went to bed last night; Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see, And left your window silver white.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Mirth, full of joy as summer bees, Sits there, its pleasures to impart, And children, ‘tween their parent’s knees, Sing scraps of carols o’er by heart.

The lamps are burning in the synagogue, In the houses of study, in dark alleys . . . This should be the place. This is the way.

On a clear winter’s evening The crescent moon And the round squirrels’ nest In the bare oak Are equal planets.

The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk!  he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation.

Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn!

We lie on the cold sand and it embraces us, this beach where locals never go in summer and boast of their absence.