New England
Here where the wind is always north-north-east And children learn to walk on frozen toes, Wonder begets an envy of all those Who boil elsewhere with such a lyric yeast Of love that you
Aunt Imogen
Aunt Imogen was coming, and therefore The children-Jane, Sylvester, and Young George – Were eyes and ears; for there was only one Aunt Imogen to them in the whole world, And she was in
A Song at Shannon's
Two men came out of Shannon’s, having known The faces of each other for so long As they had listened there to an old song, Sung thinly in a wastrel monotone By some unhappy
Amaryllis
Once, when I wandered in the woods alone, An old man tottered up to me and said, “Come, friend, and see the grave that I have made For Amaryllis.” There was in the tone
The Rat
As often as he let himself be seen We pitied him, or scorned him, or deplored The inscrutable profusion of the Lord Who shaped as one of us a thing so mean – Who
The Garden
There is a fenceless garden overgrown With buds and blossoms and all sorts of leaves; And once, among the roses and the sheaves, The Gardener and I were there alone. He led me to
Mr Flood's Party
Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night Over the hill between the town below And the forsaken upland hermitage That held as much as he should ever know On earth again of home, paused
Stafford's Cabin
Once there was a cabin here, and once there was a man; And something happened here before my memory began. Time has made the two of them the fuel of one flame And all
The Wilderness
Come away! come away! there’s a frost along the marshes, And a frozen wind that skims the shoal where it shakes the dead black water; There’s a moan across the lowland and a wailing
Zola
Because he puts the compromising chart Of hell before your eyes, you are afraid; Because he counts the price that you have paid For innocence, and counts it from the start, You loathe him.
The Corridor
It may have been the pride in me for aught I know, or just a patronizing whim; But call it freak of fancy, or what not, I cannot hide the hungry face of him.
London Bridge
“Do I hear them? Yes, I hear the children singing-and what of it? Have you come with eyes afire to find me now and ask me that? If I were not their father and
The Pilot
From the Past and Unavailing Out of cloudland we are steering: After groping, after fearing, Into starlight we come trailing, And we find the stars are true. Still, O comrade, what of you? You
Cassandra
I heard one who said: “Verily, What word have I for children here? Your Dollar is your only Word, The wrath of it your only fear. “You build it altars tall enough To make
Ballad of Dead Friends
As we the withered ferns By the roadway lying, Time, the jester, spurns All our prayers and prying All our tears and sighing, Sorrow, change, and woe All our where-and-whying For friends that come