We’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends.

There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings, as now in October.

It’s a natural thing for women to lead . . . Same thing with most Native American tribes. You didn’t see the women or hear them, but they ruled the tribe.

But there’s a full moon rising Let’s go dancing in the light We know where the music’s playing Let’s go out and feel the night.

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

The mist has left the greening plain, The dew-drops shine like fairy rain, The coquette rose awakes again Her lovely self adorning.

Don’t tell fish stories where the people know you; but particularly, don’t tell them where they know the fish.

Sweet smell of phlox drifting across the lawn — An early warning of the end of summer. August is fading fast, and by September The little purple flowers will all be gone.

The day, immeasurably long, sleeps over the broad hills and the warm wide fields. To have lived through all its sunny hours seems longevity enough.

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.

The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

The sea froths white In the beach grass, Piling the wet sand Into dunes, Covering the land My father used to mow.

Now I am here, later I will be there. I will be that small cloud, staring down at the water, the one that stalls, that lifts its white legs, that looks like a lamb.

We’ll go in the morning, that is, if it’s clear, And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet. It’s so long since I picked I almost forget How we used to pick berries.

Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings.

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.

I am waiting For the meek to be blessed And inherit the earth Without taxes And I am waiting For forests and animals To reclaim the earth as theirs.

Too beautiful to go back to sleep The morning sprite before the sun Black silhouetted trees that edge the world Respeak stillness as night’s undone.

Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin, Just take off your coat and go to it; Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.