Poems about apron
I Love The Cause That Slew Me,
most i love the cause that slew me,
should they start for the sky,
a pope, or something of that kind!
i'd rather call him "star,"
that "god have mercy" on the soul
that not for all their heaven can boast
and wear if god should count me fit
i do not care about it
but say my apron bring the sticks
that did it tear all day,
and so and so had been to me,
That Sense Was Reaching Him
his habit is severe
while i was reaching him
was it the mat winked,
that sense was breaking through
that if the spirit like to hide
but say my apron bring the sticks
for fear i hear her say
To White Rest, And A Last Sounding Word
and spread her apron to it, she put out her hand
and still the bird revisited her young,
and caught me splitting wood in the yard,
the life from spilling, then the boy saw all
across the sill from the outer gloom,
to white rest, and a place of rest
one on a side, it comes to little more,
then there were three there, making a dim row,
there came a gust, you used to think the trees
spares to strike for the common good,
what brought the kindred spider to that height?
here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
almost like a call to come in
and a last sounding word to say,
he hates to see a boy the fool of books,
A Quiverful To Make Pretense
a quiverful to choose from, since he wished me
and say no word to tell me who he was
he will not see me stopping here
man came to tell it what was wrong,
and the sweet pang it cost me not to call
and spread her apron to it, she put out her hand
and checked my steps to make pretense