Why make so much of fragmentary bl
In here and there a bird, or butte
Or flower, or wearing—stone, or op
When heaven presents in sheets the
Since earth is earth, perhaps, not

The rose is a rose,
And was always a rose.
But the theory now goes
That the apple’s a rose,
And the pear is, and so’s

Others taunt me with having knelt
Always wrong to the light, so neve
Deeper down in the well than where
Gives me back in a shining surface
Me myself in the summer heaven god

I had withdrawn in forest, and my
Was swallowed up in leaves that bl
And to the forest edge you came on
(This was my dream) and looked and
But did not enter, though the wish

He is said to have been the last
In Action. And the Miller is sai
If you like to call such a sound a
But he gave no one else a laugher’
For he turned suddenly grave as if

He saw her from the bottom of the
Before she saw him. She was star
Looking back over her shoulder at
She took a doubtful step and then
To raise herself and look again.

Thine emulous fond flowers are dea
And the daft sun—assaulter, he
That frighted thee so oft, is fled
Save only me
(Nor is it sad to thee!)

Brown lived at such a lofty farm
That everyone for miles could see
His lantern when he did his chores
In winter after half-past three.
And many must have seen him make

Something inspires the only cow of
To make no more of a wall than an
And think no more of wall-builders
Her face is flecked with pomace an
A cider syrup. Having tasted frui

I staid the night for shelter at a
Behind the mountains, with a mothe
Two old—believers. They did all t
MOTHER Folks think a witch who
She could call up to pass a winter