Abstraction is an old story with t
Granted no one but a humanist much
Then there is this wildness whereo
It should be of the pleasure of a
No tears in the writer, no tears i

There was never a sound beside the
And that was my long scythe whispe
What was it it whispered? I knew
Perhaps it was something about the
Something, perhaps, about the lack

The bear puts both arms around the
And draws it down as if it were a
And its choke cherries lips to kis
Then lets it snap back upright in
Her next step rocks a boulder on t

More than halfway up the pass
Was a spring with a broken drinkin
And whether the farmer drank or no
His mare was sure to observe the s
By cramping the wheel on a water-b

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

Whose woods these are I think I k
His house is in the village, thoug
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with sn
My little horse must think it quee

Out walking in the frozen swamp on
I paused and said, 'I will turn b
No, I will go on farther—and we s
The hard snow held me, save where
One foot went through. The view w

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

I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?

Age saw two quiet children
Go loving by at twilight,
He knew not whether homeward,
Or outward from the village,
Or (chimes were ringing) churchwar