#1928 #AmericanWriters #WestRunningBrook
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…
No ship of all that under sail or… Have gathered people to us more an… But Pilgrim-manned the Mayflower… Has been her anxious convoy in to…
Why make so much of fragmentary bl… In here and there a bird, or butte… Or flower, or wearing—stone, or op… When heaven presents in sheets the… Since earth is earth, perhaps, not…
If this uncertain age in which we… Were really as dark as I hear sag… And I convinced that they were re… I should not curse myself with it… But leaving not the chair I long…
On glossy wires artistically bent, He draws himself up to his full ex… His natty wings with self-assuranc… His stinging quarters menacingly w… Poor egotist, he has no way of kno…
We saw leaves go to glory, Then almost migratory Go part way down the lane, And then to end the story Get beaten down and pasted
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…
To Time it never seems that he is… To set himself against the peaks o… To lay them level with the running… Nor is he overjoyed when they lie… But only grave, contemplative and…
For Lincoln MacVeagh Never tell me that not one star of… That slip from heaven at night and… Has been picked up with stones to… Some laborer found one faded and s…
He halted in the wind, and– what… Far in the maples, pale, but not a… He stood there bringing March aga… And yet too ready to believe the m… ‘Oh, that’s the Paradise-in-bloom…
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…
I wonder about the trees. Why do we wish to bear Forever the noise of these More than another noise So close to our dwelling place?
You like to hear about gold. A king filled his prison room As full as the room could hold To the top of his reach on the wal… With every known shape of the stuf…
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…
There were three in the meadow by… Gathering up windrows, piling cock… With an eye always lifted toward t… Where an irregular sun—bordered cl… Darkly advanced with a perpetual d…