Her Word
One ought not to have to care
So much as you and I
Care when the birds come round the
To seem to say good—bye;

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

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The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to th
When between whirls of snow not co
And whirls of foliage not yet laid
A stranger to our yard, who looked

(Microscopic)
A speck that would have been benea
On any but a paper sheet so white
Set off across what I had written
And I had idly poised my pen in a

Grief may have thought it was grie
Care may have thought it was care.
They were welcome to their belief,
The overimportant pair.
No, it took all the snows that clu

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

The play seems out for an almost i
Don’t mind a little thing like the
The only I worry about is the sun
We’ll be all right if nothing goes

The witch that came (the withered
To wash the steps with pail and ra
Was once the beauty Abishag,
The picture pride of Hollywood.
Too many fall from great and good

No ship of all that under sail or
Have gathered people to us more an
But Pilgrim-manned the Mayflower
Has been her anxious convoy in to