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,

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

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

I slumbered with your poems on my
Spread open as I dropped them hal
Like dove wings on a figure on a t
To see, if in a dream they brought
I might not have the chance I mis

Nothing to say to all those marria
She had made three herself to thre
The score was even for them, three
But come to die she found she care
She thought of children in a buria

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.

There was never a sound beside the
And that was my long scythe whispe
What was it it whispered? I knew
Perhaps it was something about the
Something, perhaps, about the lack

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

No speed of wind or water rushing
But you have speed far greater. Y
Back up a stream of radiance to th
And back through history up the st
And you were given this swiftness,

I slumbered with your poems on my
Spread open as I dropped them hal
Like dove wings on a figure on a t
To see, if in a dream they brought
I might not have the chance I mis