#1928 #AmericanWriters #WestRunningBrook
I Dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar w… And a cellar in which the daylight… And the purple-stemmed wild raspbe…
Always the same, when on a fated n… At last the gathered snow lets dow… As may be in dark woods, and with… It shall not make again all winter… Of hissing on the yet uncovered gr…
Some one in ancient Mas d’Azil Once took a little pebble wheel And dotted it with red for me, And sent it to me years and years— A million years to be precise—
I found a dimpled spider, fat and… On a white heal-all, holding up a… Like a white piece of rigid satin… Assorted characters of death and b… Mixed ready to begin the morning r…
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…
He saw her from the bottom of the… Before she saw him. She was star… Looking back over her shoulder at… She took a doubtful step and then… To raise herself and look again.…
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…
They sent him back to her. The le… Saying... And she could have him.… She could be sure there was no hid… Under the formal writing, he was i… Living. They gave him back to her…
“When I was just as far as I coul… From here today, There was an hour All still When leaning with my head against…
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…
HERE come the line-gang pioneeri… They throw a forest down less cut… They plant dead trees for living,… They string together with a living… They string an instrument against…
Four or five whippoorwills Have come down from their native l… To the open country edge To give us a piece of their bills. Two in June were a pair—
There is a singer everyone has hea… Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood… Who makes the solid tree trunks so… He says that leaves are old and th… Mid-summer is to spring as one to…
Something inspires the only cow of… To make no more of a wall than an… And think no more of wall-builders… Her face is flecked with pomace an… A cider syrup. Having tasted frui…
A house that lacks, seemingly, mis… With doors that none but the wind… Its floor all littered with glass… It stands in a garden of old-fashi… I pass by that way in the gloaming…