If heaven were to do again,
And on the pasture bars,
I leaned to line the figures in
Between the dotted stars,
I should be tempted to forget,

The line-storm clouds fly tattered
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for

When I was young my teachers were
I gave up fire for form till I wa
I suffered like a metal being cast
I went to school to age to learn t
Now when I am old my teachers are

He is that fallen lance that lies
That lies unlifted now, come dew,
But still lies pointed as it ploug
If we who sight along it round the
See nothing worthy to have been it

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.

Now close the windows and hush all
If the trees must, let them silent
No bird is singing in them now, an
Be it my loss.
It will be long ere the marshes re

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?

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

He thought he kept the universe al
For all the voice in answer he cou
Was but the mocking echo of his ow
From some tree-hidden cliff across
Some morning from the boulder-brok

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