Something there is that doesn’t lo
That sends the frozen—ground—swell
And spills the upper boulders in t
And makes gaps even two can pass a
The work of hunters is another thi

The heart can think of no devotion
Greater than being shore to ocean
Holding the curve of one position,
Counting an endless repetition.

They leave us so to the way we too

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fal
To—morrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;

Come with rain, O loud Southweste
Bring the singer, bring the nester
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snow—bank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;

(To hear us talk)
The tree the tempest with a crash
Throws down in front of us is not
Our passage to our journey’s end f
But just to ask us who we think we

It went many years,
But at last came a knock,
And I thought of the door
With no lock to lock.
I blew out the light,

Mary sat musing on the lamp—flame
Waiting for Warren. When she hear
She ran on tip—toe down the darken
To meet him in the doorway with th
And put him on his guard. “Silas

Never have I been glad or sad
That there was such a thing as bad
There had to be, I understood,
For there to have been any good.
It was by having been contrasted

The rain to the wind said,
'You push and I’ll pelt.'
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged - though not dead.