‘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

I WALKED down alone Sunday aft
To the place where John has been
To see for myself about the birch
He said I could have to bush my p
The sun in the new-cut narrow gap

A tree’s leaves may be ever so goo
So may its bar, so may its wood;
But unless you put the right thing
It never will show much flower or
But I may be one who does not car

Others taunt me with having knelt
Always wrong to the light, so neve
Deeper down in the well than where
Gives me back in a shining surface
Me myself in the summer heaven god

Seek not in me the big I capital,
Not yet the little dotted in me se
If I have in me any I at all,
'Tis the iota subscript of the Gr
So small am I as an attention beg

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

An ant on the tablecloth
Ran into a dormant moth
Of many times his size.
He showed not the least surprise.
His business wasn’t with such.

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

My long two-pointed ladder’s stick
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’
Beside it, and there may be two or
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bo

Dust always blowing about the town
Except when sea—fog laid it down,
And I was one of the children tol
Some of the blowing dust was gold.
All the dust the wind blew high