The fields lie wrapt in autumn dreams, Beneath the dim, blue vault of night, The moon, like a bark on sluggish streams, Spreads soft her sail of silver light.

The day is yet one more yellow leaf And without turning I kiss the light By an old well on the last of the month Gathering wild rose hips In the sun.

Full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

A boy and his dad on a fishing trip — There is a glorious fellowship! Father and son and the open sky, And the white clouds lazily drifting by.

The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel — Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such.

The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer.

A languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze, With labored respiration, moves the wheat From distant reaches, till the golden seas Break in crisp whispers at my feet.

Why all the embarrassment About being happy? Sometimes I’m as happy As a sleeping dog, And for the same reasons, And for others.

History is a guide to navigation in perilous times. History is who we are and why we are the way we are.

The kingfisher rises out of the black wave Like a blue flower, In his beak he carries a silver leaf. I think this is the prettiest world – so long as you don’t mind a little dying.

Mosquito is out, It’s the end of the day; She’s humming and hunting Her evening away. Who knows why such hunger Arrives on such wings at sundown? I guess it’s the nature of things.

The fan beats back and forth, A lighthouse beacon made of wind. It spots you for a breath of time, then turns away, Leaving you in the dark of calm.

Sing in the silent sky, Glad soaring bird; Sing out thy notes on high To sunbeam straying by Or passing cloud; Heedless if thou art heard Sing thy full song aloud.

Everyone’s feeling pretty It’s hotter than July Though the world’s full of problems They couldn’t touch us even if they tried.

I am waiting for the day That maketh all things clear And I am awaiting retribution For what America did To Tom Sawyer And I am waiting For Alice in Wonderland.

In the summer I stretch out on the shore And think of you Had I told the sea What I felt for you, It would have left its shores, Its shells, Its fish, And followed me.

Only a dad, but he gives his all To smooth the way for his children small, Doing, with courage stern and grim, The deeds that his father did for him.

The windows of a classroom always open To the future, but in our innocence we thought it was only landscape We were seeing from the window.

The rain streams down like harp-strings from the sky; The wind, that world-old harpist, sitteth by; And ever as he sings his low refrain, He plays upon the harp-strings of the rain.

Morning’s at seven; The hill-side’s dew-pearled; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in his Heaven — All’s right with the world!