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

She had no saying dark enough
For the dark pine that kept
Forever trying the window latch
Of the room where they slept.
The tireless but ineffectual hands

For Lincoln MacVeagh
Never tell me that not one star of
That slip from heaven at night and
Has been picked up with stones to
Some laborer found one faded and s

A lantern light from deeper in the
Shone on a man and woman in the do
And threw their lurching shadows o
Near by, all dark in every glossy
A horse’s hoof pawed once the holl

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;

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

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

Here come real stars to fill the u
And here on earth come emulating f
That though they never equal stars
(And they were never really stars
Achieve at times a very star—like

It was far in the sameness of the
I was running with joy on the Dem
Though I knew what I hunted was n
It was just as the light was begin
That I suddenly heard’—all I need

Over back where they speak of life
('You couldn’t call it living, for
There was an old, old house renewe
And in it a piano loudly playing.
Out in the plowed ground in the co