When the blackberries hang swollen in the woods, in the brambles nobody owns, I spend all day among the high branches.

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.

I walk without flinching through the burning cathedral of the summer My bank of wild grass is majestic and full of music.  It is a fire that solitude presses against my lips.

Between the dusk of a summer night And the dawn of a summer day, We caught at a mood as it passed in flight, And we bade it stoop and stay.

America! America! God shed his grace on thee And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea!

I am coming! Hark! the honey bee is humming; See, the lark is soaring high In the blue and sunny sky, And the gnats are on the wing Wheeling round in airy ring.

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.

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.

Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree I am yours – your Passages have been paid. Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need For this bright morning dawning for you.

Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d, Few heads with knowledge so inform’d; If there’s another world, he lives in bliss; If there is none, he made the best of this.

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.

My mother dandled me and sang, ‘How young it is, how young!’ And made a golden cradle That on a willow swung.

The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Our neighbor felled his Oak. My raspberry patch rejoiced. Spring showers’ gift will be unhindered. Add pine mulch, bumble bees and wait.

In every outthrust headland, in every curving beach, in every grain of sand there is the story of the earth.

The rain makes running pools in the gutter The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night And I love the rain.

Hark, I hear a robin calling! List, the wind is from the south! And the orchard-bloom is falling Sweet as kisses on the mouth.

Indoors or out, no one relaxes in March, that month of wind and taxes, the wind will presently disappear, the taxes last us all the year.

Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill.