There is fog upon the river, there… You can hear the groping ferries a… From the Battery to Harlem there’… Through looming granite canyons of… Are you sick of phones and tickers…

THERE is a world of being We range from pole to pole, Through seasons of the spirit And weather of the soul. It has its new-born Aprils,

WHEN I am only fit to go to bed, Or hobble out to sit within the su… Ring down the curtain, say the pla… And the last petals of the poppy s… I do not want to live when I am o…

HERE in lovely New England When summer is come, a sea-turn Flutters a page of remembrance In the volume of long ago. Soft is the wind over Grand Pré

HERE all the forces of the wood As one converge, To make the soul of solitude Where all things merge. The sun, the rain-wind, and the ra…

ALL day long beneath the sun Shining through the fields they ru… Singing in a cadence known To the seraphs round the throne. And the traveller drawing near

ONCE I walked the world enchante… Through the scented woods of sprin… Hand in hand with Love, in raptur… Just to hear a bluebird sing. Now the lonely winds of autumn

WHO called us forth out of darkne… Who set our hands to the toiling,… Darkly they mused, predestined to… Sowing the seed of wisdom, guardin… Little they reckoned privation, hu…

NOW the little rivers go Muffled safely under snow, And the winding meadow streams Murmur in their wintry dreams, While a tinkling music wells

Harvard, 1914 SIR, friends, and scholars, we ar… A high occasion. Our New England… All her unrivalled beauty as of ol… And June, with scent of bayberry…

OH, the shambling sea is a sexton… And well his work is done. With an equal grave for lord and k… He buries them every one. Then hoy and rip, with a rolling h…

When all the stars are sown Across the night-blue space, With the immense unknown, In silence face to face. We stand in speechless awe

Time out of mind I have stood Fronting the frost and the sun, That the dream of the world might… And the goodly will be done. Did the hand of the builder guess,

BROWNING, old fellow, Your leaves grow yellow, Beginning to mellow As seasons pass. Your cover is wrinkled,

When April winds arrive And the soft rains are here, Some morning by the roadside These gipsy folk appear. We never see their coming,