It is blue-butterfly day here in s
And with these sky-flakes down in
There is more unmixed color on the
Than flowers will show for days un
But these are flowers that fly and

God made a beatous garden
With lovely flowers strown,
But one straight, narrow pathway
That was not overgrown.
And to this beauteous garden

One misty evening, one another’s g
We two were groping down a Malver
The last wet fields and dripping h
There came a moment of confusing l
Such as according to belief in Ro

For every parcel I stoop down to
I lose some other off my arms and
And the whole pile is slipping, bo
Extremes too hard to comprehend at
Yet nothing I should care to leav

When I was young, we dwelt in a v
By a misty fen that rang all night
And thus it was the maidens pale
I knew so well, whose garments tra
Across the reeds to a window light

The firm house lingers, though ave
With the new city street it has to
But what about the brook
That held the house as in an elbow
I ask as one who knew the brook, i

A neighbor of mine in the village
Likes to tell how one spring
When she was a girl on the farm, s
A childlike thing.
One day she asked her father

This saying good-bye on the edge o
And cold to an orchard so young in
Reminds me of all that can happen
An orchard away at the end of the
All winter, cut off by a hill from

A plow, they say, to plow the snow
They cannot mean to plant it, no—
Unless in bitterness to mock
At having cultivated rock.

By June our brook’s run out of so
Sought for much after that, it wil
Either to have gone groping underg
(And taken with it all the Hyla b
That shouted in the mist a month a