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

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

The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hil
The graveyard draws the living sti
But never anymore the dead.
The verses in it say and say:

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

Come with rain, O loud Southweste
Bring the singer, bring the nester
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snow—bank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;

Snow falling and night falling fas
In a field I looked into going pa
And the ground almost covered smoo
But a few weeds and stubble showin
The woods around it have it—it is

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.

SHE stood against the kitchen sin
Over the sink out through a dusty
At weeds the water from the sink m
She wore her cape; her hat was in
Behind her was confusion in the ro

The west was getting out of gold,
The breath of air had died of cold
When shoeing home across the white
I thought I saw a bird alight.
In summer when I passed the place

I stay;
But it isn’t as if
There wasn’t always Hudson’s Bay
And the fur trade,
A small skiff