This is the weather the shepherd shuns, And so do I.

When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay, And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings, Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, …

And meadow rivulets overflow, And drops on gate bars hang in a row, And rooks in families homeward go, And so do I.

Ah, no; the years, the years; Down their carved names the raindrop plows.

'Thanks be to God,' says the Admiral; 'the air is soft as in April in Seville, and it is a pleasure to be in it, so fragrant it is.'

We rub the darkness from our eyes, And face our thousand devious secret mornings . . . And do not see how the pale mist, slowly ascending, Shaped by the sun, s…

Louisiana in September was like an obscene phone call from nature. The air - moist, sultry, secretive, and far from fresh - felt as if it were being exhaled in…