In spring when maple buds are red, We turn the clock an hour ahead; Which means, each April that arrives, We lose an hour out of our lives.

When March is scarcely here A color stands abroad On solitary hills That science cannot overtake, But human nature feels

The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red.

Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love’s day.

May you Open your eyes to water Water waving forever And may you in your innocence Sail through this to that.

“Where have all the flowers gone? Long time passing Where have all the flowers gone? Long time ago Where have all the flowers gone?

The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

There are two seasonal diversions that can ease the bite of any winter. One is the January thaw. The other is the seed catalogues.

The Old Year’s gone away To nothingness and night: We cannot find him all the day Nor hear him in the night.

Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay — Stay till the good old year, So long companion of our way, Shakes hands, and leaves us here.

When clustered sparks Of many-colored fire Appear at night In ordinary windows We hear and sing The customary carols.

So now is come our joyful feast, Let every man be jolly; Each room with ivy leaves is dressed, And every post with holly.

A full moon shines Over the morning frost; The lanes are full of late-fallen leaves; Walking across the mulch Is almost as tricky As treading over ice.

Lift ev’ry voice and sing, Till earth and heaven ring, Ring with the harmonies of Liberty; Let our rejoicing rise High as the list’ning skies.

A democracy that has no monument of individual conscience in a sea of popular rule is not worthy to bear the name.

A democracy that has no monument of individual conscience in a sea of popular rule is not worthy to bear the name.

The last light of the sun Lies over the pasture Where sheep are grazing. Off toward the sea, Where the pasture dips to the dunes.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow Between the crosses row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

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.