The tree the tempest with a crash of woodThrows down in front of us is not to barOur passage to our journey's end for good,But just to ask us who we think we are.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, a cloud come over the sunlit arch, And wind comes off a frozen peak, And you're two months back in the middle of March.

Summoning artists to participate, In the august occasions of the state; Seems something artists ought to celebrate,Today is for my cause a day of days.

That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.

The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength. To feel the earth as rough to all my length.

Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.