#1913 #ABoy'sWill #AmericanWriters
The swinging mill bell changed its… To tolling like the count of fate, And though at that the tardy ran, One failed to make the closing gat… There was a law of God or man
Out walking in the frozen swamp on… I paused and said, 'I will turn b… No, I will go on farther—and we s… The hard snow held me, save where… One foot went through. The view w…
But outer Space, At least this far, For all the fuss Of the populace Stays more popular
As I went down the hill along the… There was a gate I had leaned at… And had just turned from when I f… As you came up the hill. We met.… We did that day was mingle great a…
We sit indoors and talk of the col… And every gust that gathers streng… Is a threat to the house. But the… We think of the tree. If it never… We’ll know, we say, that this was…
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…
The last step taken found your hef… Decidedly upon the left. One more would throw you on the ri… Another still—you see your plight. You call this thinking, but it’s w…
As vain to raise a voice as a sigh In the tumult of free leaves on hi… What are you in the shadow of tree… Engaged up there with the light an… Less than the coral-root you know
I said to myself almost in prayer, It will start hair raising current… When you give it the livid metal-s… It will make a homicidal roar. It will shake its cast stone reef…
This saying good-bye on the edge o… And cold to an orchard so young in… Reminds me of all that can happen… An orchard away at the end of the… All winter, cut off by a hill from…
The witch that came (the withered… To wash the steps with pail and ra… Was once the beauty Abishag, The picture pride of Hollywood. Too many fall from great and good
The rose is a rose, And was always a rose. But the theory now goes That the apple’s a rose, And the pear is, and so’s
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,
Never ask of money spent Where the spender thinks it went. Nobody was ever meant To remember or invent What he did with every cent.
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…