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.

Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights; The mower’s scythe makes music to my ear; I am the mother of all dear delights; I am the fairest daughter of the year.

There’s a place that I go to in memory That’s as real as a place can be. It is sand and shingles and sea grass And a sweep of wind-whisked sea.

Lilacs in dooryards Holding quiet conversations with an early moon; Lilacs watching a deserted house Settling sideways into the grass of an old road.

The bud stands for all things, even for those things that don’t flower, for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing.

His voice shall chant, in accents clear, Throughout the live-long day, Till the first silver star appear, The sovereignty of May.

May memory restore again and again The smallest color of the smallest day: Time is the school in which we learn, Time is the fire in which we burn.