When clustered sparks Of many-colored fire Appear at night In ordinary windows We hear and sing The customary carols.

So now is come our joyful feast, Let every man be jolly; Each room with ivy leaves is dressed, And every post with holly.

A full moon shines Over the morning frost; The lanes are full of late-fallen leaves; Walking across the mulch Is almost as tricky As treading over ice.

Lift ev’ry voice and sing, Till earth and heaven ring, Ring with the harmonies of Liberty; Let our rejoicing rise High as the list’ning skies.

A democracy that has no monument of individual conscience in a sea of popular rule is not worthy to bear the name.

A democracy that has no monument of individual conscience in a sea of popular rule is not worthy to bear the name.

The last light of the sun Lies over the pasture Where sheep are grazing. Off toward the sea, Where the pasture dips to the dunes.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow Between the crosses row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

With night coming early, And dawn coming late, And ice in the bucket And frost by the gate. The fires burn And the kettles sing, And earth sinks to rest Until next spring.

On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon.

The day is yet one more yellow leaf and without turning I kiss the light by an old well on the last of the month gathering wild rose hips in the sun.

I mean if they’re running and they don’t look where they’re going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That’s all I do all day. I’d just be the catcher in the rye and all.

The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel — Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such.

Under a blue cloud-ruffled sky, dense trees along the banks, and a fellow with a red bandana sitting in a small, green flat-bottom boat holding the thin whip of a pole.