#1928 #AmericanWriters #WestRunningBrook
It is getting dark and time he dre… But the blizzard blinds him to any… The storm gets down his neck in an… That sucks his breath like a wicke… The snow blows on him and off him,…
First under up and then again down… We watch a circus of revolving dog… No senator dares in to kick asunde… Lest both should bite him in the t…
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…
Here come the line-gang pioneering… They throw a forest down less cut… They plant dead trees for living,… They string together with a living… They string an instrument against…
I have wished a bird would fly awa… And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from… When it seemed as if I could bear… The fault must partly have been in…
Snow falling and night falling fas… In a field I looked into going pa… And the ground almost covered smoo… But a few weeds and stubble showin… The woods around it have it—it is…
A head thrusts in as for the view, But where it is it thrusts in from Or what it is it thrusts into By that Cyb’laean avenue, And what can of its coming come,
When the spent sun throws up its r… And goes down burning into the gul… No voice in nature is heard to cry… At what has happened. Birds, at l… It is the change to darkness in th…
A dented spider like a snow drop w… On a white Heal-all, holding up a… Like a white piece of lifeless sat… Saw ever curious eye so strange a… Portent in little, assorted death…
The soil now gets a rumpling soft… And small regard to the future of… The final flat of the hoe’s approv… Is reserved for the bed of a few s… There is seldom more than a man to…
But Islands of the Blessèd, bless… I never came upon a blessèd one.
There’s a place called Far-away M… We never shall mow in again, Or such is the talk at the farmhou… The meadow is finished with men. Then now is the chance for the flo…
As far as I can see this autumn h… That spreading in the evening air… Makes the new moon look anything b… And pours the elm-tree meadow full… Is all the smoke from one poor hou…
Here come real stars to fill the u… And here on earth come emulating f… That though they never equal stars… (And they were never really stars… Achieve at times a very star—like…
This biplane is the shape of human… Its name might better be First Mo… Its makers’ name—Time cannot get… For it was writ in heaven doubly…