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.

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

As I went down the hill along the
There was a gate I had leaned at
And had just turned from when I f
As you came up the hill. We met.
We did that day was mingle great a

Dust always blowing about the town
Except when sea—fog laid it down,
And I was one of the children tol
Some of the blowing dust was gold.
All the dust the wind blew high

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

When the wind works against us in
And pelts with snow
The lowest chamber window on the e
And whispers with a sort of stifle
The beast,

When a friend calls to me from the
And slows his horse to a meaning w
I don’t stand still and look aroun
On all the hills I haven’t hoed,
And shout from where I am, What i

THERE’S a patch of old snow in
That I should have guessed
Was a blow—away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if

Pan came out of the woods one day,

Now close the windows and hush all
If the trees must, let them silent
No bird is singing in them now, an
Be it my loss.
It will be long ere the marshes re