Music, sweet music, Cheers meadow and lea; In the song of the blackbird, The hum of the bee; The loud happy laughter Of children at play Proclaim how they worship Spring’s beautiful day.

The rackety, icy, offshore wind Numbed our faces on one side; Disrupted the formation Of a lone flight of Canada geese; And blew back the low, inaudible rollers In upright, steely mist.

And each succeeding day now longer grows. The birds a gladder music have begun, The squirrel, full of mischief and of fun, From maples’ topmost branch the brown twig throws.

The world is a beautiful place To be born into If you don’t mind happiness Not always being So very much fun.

In winter All the singing is in The tops of the trees Where the wind-bird With its white eyes Shoves and pushes Among the branches. Like any of us.

The flakes descend, Softly, without a sound that I can tell — When out of the further white a gull appears, Crosses the hollow place, and goes again…

The dry, black branches of winter seen in flight Run singing. Come here to drink Translucent drops on fresh leaves. Come over here, and try to light that wick.

I joy to see him come marching forth Begirt with the icicle gems of the north; But I like him best when he comes bedight In his velvet robes of stainless white.

But while democracy can be periodically delayed, It can never be permanently defeated. In this truth, in this faith, we trust. For while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us.

There comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe nor politic nor popular, but he must take it because his conscience tells him it is right.

Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free.

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.

Mirth, full of joy as summer bees, Sits there, its pleasures to impart, And children, ‘tween their parent’s knees, Sing scraps of carols o’er by heart.

All is black shadow, but the lucid line Marked by the light surf on the level sand, Or where afar, the ship-lights faintly shine Like wandering fairy fires.

But it is winter with your love; I scatter crumbs upon the sill, And close the window, — and the birds May take or leave them, as they will.

But it is winter with your love; I scatter crumbs upon the sill, And close the window, — and the birds May take or leave them, as they will.

A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had! Worth three cents more to give away than sell . . . Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter. I can’t help wishing I could send you one.

With incense sweet our thanks ascend; Before thy works our powers pall; Though we should strive years without end, We could not thank thee for them all.

My last walk in the trees has come. At dawn I must return to the trapped fields, To the obedient earth. The trees shall be reaching all the winter.

I’ve been wondering about what you mean, Standing in the spray of shadows before an ocean Abandoned for winter, silent as a barque of blond hair.