At the moon’s down-going let it be On the quarry hill with its one gn… The red-rock road of the underbrus… Where the woman came through the s… The sumac high and the elder thick…

Non numero horas nisi serenas When Fall drowns morns in mist, i… In soul I am a part of it; A portion of its humid beams, A form of fog, I seem to flit

The partridge-berry flecks with fl… That leads to ferny hollows where… Drones on the aster. Far away the… Points its deep sapphire with a gl… Here from this height where, clust…

Here is a tale for uncles and old… There was a man once who denied th… Yet in the world saw nothing else… A pessimist, with face as sour as… Still people praised him; men he l…

Lay but a finger on That pallid petal sweet, It trembles gray and wan Beneath the passing feet. But soft! blown rose, we know

See how the rose leaves fall The rose leaves fall and fade: And by the wall, in dusk funereal, How leaf on leaf is laid, Withered and soiled and frayed.

Old Man Rain at the windowpane Knocks and fumbles and knocks agai… His long-nailed fingers slip and s… Old Man Rain at the windowpane Knocks all night but knocks in vai…

There are three things of Earth That help us more Than those of heavenly birth That all implore Than Love or Faith or Hope,

A cry went through the darkness; a… Hurrying through storm, gazed with… Then cloaked herself in scud: the… Of surges ceased; and then th’ Ae… Of the wild siren, Wind, within t…

They mock the present and they hau… And in the future there is naught… With hope, the soul desires, that… The heart pursuing does not find a…

There’s a scent of pungent wood sm… And a jack-o’-lantern glare, a wil… ’Tis the brush that burns and smou… The old New England ways, When Autumn plants her gipsy tent…

I belt the morn with ribboned mist… With baldricked blue I gird the n… And dusk with purple, crimson-kiss… White-buckled with the hunter’s mo… These follow me, the season says:

When the hornet hangs in the holly… And the brown bee drones i’ the ro… And the west is a red-streaked fou… And summer is near its close– It’s oh, for the gate and the locu…

The thorn-tree waved a bough of M… And all its branches bent To indicate the wildwood way The Wind and Sunbeam went. A wildrose here, a wildrose there

First of the insect choir, in the… We hear his faint voice fluttering… Beneath some blossom’s rosy coveri… Or frond of fern upon a wildwood p… When in the marsh, in clamorous or…