#1913 #ABoy'sWill #AmericanWriters
One thing has a shelving bank, Another a rotting plank, To give it cozier skies And make up for its lack of size. My own strategic retreat
Oh, stormy stormy world, The days you were not swirled Around with mist and cloud, Or wrapped as in a shroud, And the sun’s brilliant ball
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…
When I spread out my hand here to… I catch no more than a ray To feel of between thumb and finge… No lasting effect of it lingers. There was one time and only the on…
The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart
‘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…
It took that pause to make him rea… The mountain he was climbing had t… As of a book held up before his ey… (And was a text albeit done in pla… Dwarf cornel, gold-thread, and mai…
The grade surmounted, we were ridi… Through level mountains nothing to… But scrub oak, scrub oak and the l… That kept the oaks from getting an… But as through the monotony we ran…
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…
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,
I staid the night for shelter at a… Behind the mountain, with a mother… Two old-believers. They did all t… Mother. Folks think a witch who h… She could call up to pass a winter…
Where had I heard this wind befor… Change like this to a deeper roar? What would it take my standing the… Holding open a restive door, Looking down hill to a frothy shor…
There sandy seems the golden sky And golden seems the sandy plain. No habitation meets the eye Unless in the horizon rim, Some halfway up the limestone wall…
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
What tree may not the fig be gathe… The grape may not be gathered from… It’s all you know the grape, or kn… As a girl gathered from the birch… Equally with my weight in grapes,…