There’s a place called Far-away M
We never shall mow in again,
Or such is the talk at the farmhou
The meadow is finished with men.
Then now is the chance for the flo

What tree may not the fig be gathe
The grape may not be gathered from
It’s all you know the grape, or kn
As a girl gathered from the birch
Equally with my weight in grapes,

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-

My long two-pointed ladder’s stick
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’
Beside it, and there may be two or
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bo

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!)

All out-of-doors looked darkly in
Through the thin frost, almost in
That gathers on the pane in empty
What kept his eyes from giving bac
Was the lamp tilted near them in h

A voice said, Look me in the star
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth

I’ve tried the new moon tilted in
Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cl
As you might try a jewel in your h
I’ve tried it fine with little bre
Alone, or in one ornament combinin

The line—storm clouds fly tattered
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones
And the hoof—prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for

An ant on the tablecloth
Ran into a dormant moth
Of many times his size.
He showed not the least surprise.
His business wasn’t with such.