What tree may not the fig be gathe
The grape may not be gathered from
It’s all you know the grape, or kn
As a girl gathered from the birch
Equally with my weight in grapes,

The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.
As long as it takes to pass

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

BROWN lived at such a lofty farm
That everyone for miles could see
His lantern when he did his chores
In winter after half-past three.
And many must have seen him make

‘Fred, where is north?’
‘North? North is there, my love.
The brook runs west.’
‘West—running Brook then call it.
(West—Running Brook men call it t

When the wind works against us in
And pelts with snow
The lowest chamber window on the e
And whispers with a sort of stifle
The beast,

(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

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,

I have been one acquainted with th
I have walked out in rain—and back
I have outwalked the furthest city
I have looked down the saddest cit
I have passed by the watchman on h

Age saw two quiet children
Go loving by at twilight,
He knew not whether homeward,
Or outward from the village,
Or (chimes were ringing) churchwar