The brown buds thicken on the trees, Unbound, the free streams sing, As March leads forth across the leas The wild and windy spring.

March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.

An earlier version Of sunrise Teases the curtains Teases the whiteness of sheets That gather around my ankles That remind my feet to breathe.

Close close all night The lovers keep. They turn together In their sleep, Close as two papers In a book That read each other In the dark.

Goodnight room, Goodnight moon, Goodnight cow jumping over the moon, Goodnight light, And the red balloon, Goodnight bears, Goodnight chairs

February, month of despair, with a skewered heart in the centre. I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries with a splash of vinegar.

Bare branches of each tree On this chilly January morn Look so cold so forlorn. Gray skies dip ever so low Left from yesterday’s dusting of snow.

Midwinter spring is its own season Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown, Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.

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

These sudden ends of time must give us pause. We fray into the future, rarely wrought Save in the tapestries of afterthought.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand years of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace!

put up your little arms and i’ll give them all to you to hold every finger shall have its ring and there won’t be a single place dark or unhappy.

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

To the cold December heaven Came the pale moon and the stars, As the yellow sun was sinking Behind the purple bars.

But if I had the stars of the darkest night And the diamonds from the deepest ocean I'd forsake them all for your sweet kiss For that's all I'm wishin' to be ownin'.

Give praise with the skirling of seagulls And the rattle and flap of sails And gongs of buoys rocked by the sea-swell Out in the shipping-lanes beyond the harbor.

The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry’s cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town.

The world is a mist. And then the world is minute and vast and clear. The tide is higher or lower. He couldn’t tell you which.

Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow, But it were vain to tell her so, And they are better for her praise.

On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon.