#1913 #ABoy'sWill #AmericanWriters
The fisherman’s swapping a yarn fo… Under the hand of the village barb… And her in the angle of house and… His deep-sea dory has found a harb… At anchor she rides the sunny sod
Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise
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…
Back out of all this now too much… Back in a time made simple by the… Of detail, burned, dissolved, and… Like graveyard marble sculpture in… There is a house that is no more a…
Wind the season-climate mixer In my Witches’ Weather Primer Says to make this Fall Elixir First you let the summer simmer, Using neither spoon nor skimmer,
Seek not in me the big I capital, Not yet the little dotted in me se… If I have in me any I at all, 'Tis the iota subscript of the Gr… So small am I as an attention beg…
Out of the mud two strangers came And caught me splitting wood in th… And one of them put me off my aim By hailing cheerily “Hit them har… I knew pretty well why he had drop…
Was there even a cause too lost, Ever a cause that was lost too lon… Or that showed with the lapse of t… For the generous tears of youth an…
As I came to the edge of the wood… Thrush music—hark! Now if it was dusk outside, Inside it was dark. Too dark in the woods for a bird
In a Vermont bedroom closet With a door of two broad boards And for back wall a crumbling old… (And that’s what their toes are to… I have a pair of shoes standing,
He has dust in his eyes and a fan… A leg akimbo with which he can sin… And a mouthful of dye stuff instea…
He is said to have been the last… In Action. And the Miller is sai… If you like to call such a sound a… But he gave no one else a laugher’… For he turned suddenly grave as if…
A tree’s leaves may be ever so goo… So may its bar, so may its wood; But unless you put the right thing… It never will show much flower or… But I may be one who does not car…
Around bend after bend, It was blown woods and no end. I came to but one house I made but the one friend. At the one house a child was out
Dust always blowing about the town… Except when sea—fog laid it down, And I was one of the children tol… Some of the blowing dust was gold. All the dust the wind blew high