Bed me in autumn’s leaves, Beloved;take me under this red-gold canopy,under October’s crystal sky.Lay yourself on me; cover melike a carpet of shimmering gold.Let me inhale autumn’s fragrancewith your rich, warm man-scent.Silver frosts our hair, Beloved;our eyes are shadow-grayed.But the fires of our youth still smolderin glowing embers needing buta breath of crisp, sparkling airto burst into...
Some say the world will end in fire,Some say in ice.From what I’ve tasted of desireI hold with those who favor fire.But if it had to perish twice,I think I know enough of hateTo say that for destruction iceIs also greatAnd would suffice.
Robert Frost
After great pain, a formal feeling comes–The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Toombs–The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round–Of Ground, or Air, or Ought–A Wooden wayRegardless grown,A Quartz contentment, like a stone– This is the Hour of Lead–Remembered, if outlived,As Freezing persons...
Pity me not because the light of dayAt close of day no longer walks the sky;Pity me not for beauties passed awayFrom field and thicket as the year goes by;Pity me not the waning of the moon,Nor that the ebbing tide goes out to sea,Nor that a man’s desire is hushed so soon,And you no longer look with love on me. This love I have known always: love is no moreThan the wide blossom which...
When April bends above meAnd finds me fast asleepDust need not keep the secretA live heart died to keep. When April tells the thrushes,The meadow-larks will know,And pipe the three words lightlyTo all the winds that blow. Above his roof the swallows,In notes like far-blown rain,Will tell the little sparrowBeside his window-pane. O sparrow, little sparrow,When I am fast asleep,Then tell my love...
I have wished a bird would fly away,And not sing by my house all day;
Have clapped my hands at him from the doorWhen it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me.The bird was not to blame for his key.
And of course there must be something wrongIn wanting to silence any song.
Robert Frost (March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claim,Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for that the passing thereHad worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally layIn...
“Nature” is what we see—The Hill—the Afternoon—Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—Nay—Nature is Heaven—Nature is what we hear—The Bobolink—the Sea—Thunder—the Cricket—Nay—Nature is Harmony—Nature is what we know—Yet have no art to say—So impotent Our Wisdom isTo her Simplicity.
Emily Dickinson
I have been one acquainted with the night.I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane.I have passed by the watchman on his beatAnd dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feetWhen far away an interrupted cryCame over houses from another street, But not to call me...
‘Twas such a little—little boatThat toddled down the bay!‘Twas such a gallant—gallant seaThat beckoned it away!
‘Twas such a greedy, greedy waveThat licked it from the Coast—Nor ever guessed the stately sailsMy little craft was lost!
Emily Dickinson