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.

The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.

How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness how the time has flewn.

My first roses brought me to my senses. All my furies, I launched them like paper boats in the algaed pond behind my house.

Peacefully The quiet stars came out, one after one; The holy twilight fell upon the sea, The summer day was done.

Though I lack the art To decipher it, No doubt the next chapter In my book of transformations Is already written. I am not done with my changes.

When skies are deepest blue above, And flow’rs aflush, — then most I love To start, while early dews are damp, And wend my way in woodland tramp.

The Ocean has its silent caves, Deep, quiet, and alone; Though there be fury on the waves, Beneath them there is none.

So white, so green, so blue, so golden . . . so neat, so clean, frilled with the hues of fall flowers and growing grass . . .

Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied, That leaves only me to blame, 'cause Mama tried.

Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the origin of this universe. Remember you are all people and all people are you.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You’re one month on in the middle of May.

Hark, I hear a robin calling! List, the wind is from the south! And the orchard-bloom is falling Sweet as kisses on the mouth.

O let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day thy victories: Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

Where am I going? I don’t quite know. Down to the stream where the king-cups grow Up on the hill where the pine-trees blow Anywhere, anywhere. I don’t know.

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.