“You ought to have seen what I sa
To the village, through Mortenson
Blueberries as big as the end of y
Real sky-blue, and heavy, and read
In the cavernous pail of the first

EVEN the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the

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

The land was ours before we were t
She was our land more than a hundr
Before we were her people. She wa
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England’s, still colo

Oh, give us pleasure in the flower
And give us not to think so far aw
As the uncertain harvest; keep us
All simply in the springing of the
Oh, gives us pleasure in the orcha

It was too lonely for her there,
And too wild,
And since there were but two of th
And no child,
And work was little in the house,

(To hear us talk)
The tree the tempest with a crash
Throws down in front of us is not
Our passage to our journey’s end f
But just to ask us who we think we

Why make so much of fragmentary bl
In here and there a bird, or butte
Or flower, or wearing—stone, or op
When heaven presents in sheets the
Since earth is earth, perhaps, not

The well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;
Not loth to have excuse to go,

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