There's nothing like the sun as the year dies, Kind as it can be, this world being made so, To stones and men and beasts and birds and flies, To all things that it touches except snow, Whether on mountain side or street of town.  The south wall warms me: November has begun, Yet never shone the sun as fair as now While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough  With spangles of the morning’s storm drop down  Because the starling shakes it, whistling what  Once swallows sang. But I have not...

The last light has gone out of the world, except  This moonlight lying on the grass like frost Beyond the brink of the tall elm’s shadow. It is as if everything else had slept  Many an age, unforgotten and lost  The men that were, the things done, long ago, All I have thought; and but the moon and I  Live yet and here stand idle over the grave  Where all is buried. Both have liberty  To dream what we could do if we were free  To do some thing we had desired long, The moon and I. There’s none...

All day and night, save winter, every weather, Above the inn, the smithy and the shop, The aspens at the cross-roads talk together  Of...