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

The surest thing there is is we ar
And though none too successful at
Through everything presented, land
And now the very air, of what we r
What is this talked-of mystery of

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

We make ourselves a place apart
Behind light words that tease and
But oh, the agitated heart
Till someone find us really out.
'Tis pity if the case require

ONCE on the kind of day called “
When the heat slowly hazes and the
By its own power seems to be undon
I was half boring through, half cl
A swamp of cedar. Choked with oil

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

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

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled i
And made dust and dropped stove-le
Sweet-scented stuff when the breez
And from there those that lifted e
Five mountain ranges one behind th

It is blue-butterfly day here in s
And with these sky-flakes down in
There is more unmixed color on the
Than flowers will show for days un
But these are flowers that fly and

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,