Old Davis owned a solid mica moun
In Dalton that would someday make
There’d been some Boston people o
And experts said that deep down in
The mica sheets were big as plate-

I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?

Poetry is when an emotion has foun

If heaven were to do again,
And on the pasture bars,
I leaned to line the figures in
Between the dotted stars,
I should be tempted to forget,

My Sorrow, when she’s here with m
Thinks these dark days of autumn r
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered t
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

I had for my winter evening walk—
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.
And I thought I had the folk with

You’ll wait a long, long time for
To happen in heaven beyond the flo
And the Northern Lights that run
The sun and moon get crossed, but
Nor strike out fire from each othe

YOU were forever finding some new
So when I saw you down on hands a
In the meadow, busy with the new-c
Trying, I thought, to set it up o
I went to show you how to make it

A dented spider like a snow drop w
On a white Heal-all, holding up a
Like a white piece of lifeless sat
Saw ever curious eye so strange a
Portent in little, assorted death

Grief may have thought it was grie
Care may have thought it was care.
They were welcome to their belief,
The overimportant pair.
No, it took all the snows that clu