Poems about sell
Answer What I Put Away His Life
't is the seal, despair,
this, and my heart beside
in dreams i see them rise,
although i put away his life
and the earth they tell me
to lose if one can find again
could you afford to sell
the other to prefer?
and answer what i do
To Say It Out,
to watch his woods fill up with snow,
to put a tree between us when he lighted,
before he arrives to say it out,
where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets,
before he came to the land of spain,
out of the winter things he fashions a story of modern love,
of tears, the aftermark
some guttural exclamation of surprise
of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
`i'll Have Outwalked The Withered Leaves
`i'll have one if i sell my farm to buy it,'
ah! i remember me
i don't know rightly whether any man can,"
not caring so very much what she supposes,
but tree, i have seen you taken and tossed,
i found it with the withered leaves
i have outwalked the furthest city light,
and i judge from that elysian freight
i trusted the brook barrier, but feared
For The Hard Work, He Wasn't Selling Tickets,
where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets,
that was well! and he stamped a hoof,
for the hard work, he chafed its long white body
if from its being kept forever under,
no, from the time when one is sick to death,
for him to conquer, he learned all there was
he consigned to the moon, such as she was,
he marked her through the pane,
she sighed and passed unscared along the wall,
Let Me Into Your Grief, I'm Not So
and the more loitering are turned
the leaves are all dead on the group,
the road would fail; and on that side the fire
across the reeds to a window light,
before them over their heads to dry in the sun,
slave to a springtime passion for the earth,
he's come to help you ditch the meadow,
man came to tell it what was wrong,
though doubtful whether he stayed to see,
he said he couldn't make the boy believe
something to sell? that wasn't how it sounded,
i wasn�t going to tell you and i mustn�t,
let me into your grief, i'm not so much
for i have had too much
i've been away once yes, i've been away,
But I Called It A Day, I Wish
i guess you'd find,, it seems to me
call it a day, i wish they might have said
but i called it a name,
but he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom,
something to sell? that wasn't how it sounded,
he don't know why he isn't quite as good
It Stained A Side, It Stained A Cord
a wind to blow in earnest from some quarter,
to see if the birds lived the first night through,
the water for which we may have to look
see nothing worthy to have been its mark,
not to believe the phoebes wept,
trying to sell his farm and then not selling,
to have you come and camp here on our land,
to find that the utmost reward
and to the forest edge you came one day
when a friend calls to me from the road
one on a side, it comes to little more,
before it stained a single human breast,
it was a cord of maple, cut and split
Where His Job, When He Loves;
she let him look, sure that he wouldn't see,
and then he'd crow as if he thought that child's play
where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets,
in time, had she not realized her danger
the sound was behind me instead of before,
of bending like a sword across the knee,
a sort of catch-all full of attic clutter,
more blameless in the sense of being less
the more of right the more he loves;
a moment sought in air his flower of rest,
the mower in the dew had loved them thus,
yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,
With Doctoring, But It Sounded,
and be one traveler, long i stood
and so the choice must be again,
with doctoring, but it's not medicine
something to sell? that wasn't how it sounded,
upon my way to sleep before it fell,
he kept from school, or did his best to keep
and would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
and to do that to birds was why she came,
see nothing worthy to have been its mark,
that ought to be worth something, and may yet,
though we choose greatly, still to lack
to listen ere we dared to look,
With Doors That None But The Other Way
off he goes always when i need him most,
and that was why it whispered and did not speak,
unless len took the notion, which he won't,
neither refused the meeting, but the hand!
trying to sell his farm and then not selling,
upon the road, to flames too, though in fear
of ever coming to the place again
you went to meet the shell's embrace of fire
and left defenseless to the heat and light,
with doors that none but the wind ever closes,
going the other way and they not seen it,
warren, i wish you could have heard the way
if you had any feelings, you that dug
didn't feel anything, and if it did,