Poems about book
Never Could To Turn
or tell god how cross we are
never could to me
it struck me every day
unto my books so good to turn
Deny That He Was Dead
how prayer would feel to me
a book i have a friend gave
deny that i am dead
but 'twas the fact that he was dead
At Night, My Little Lamp, And Laughter, Curious
and health, and laughter, curious things
at night, my little lamp, and book
why, look out for the little brook in march,
that some are like my own,
Now "would's T Have Me
a needless life, it seemed to me
that comprehendeth me
and now "would'st have me for a guest?
"
i am not in a room
for it would split his heart, to know it
i would not choose a book to know
that if the spirit like to hide
is it dead find it
this was a poet it is that
Was All I Said
she feels some ghastly fright come up
she suffered me, for i had mourned
my need was all i had i said
i can't tell you but you feel it
so well that i can live without
was dying as he thought or different
yet blamed the fate that flung it less
possibly but we would rather
or was myself too small?
i would not choose a book to know
and what a privilege to be
as if for you to choose,
good night, because we must,
dissuade thee, if i could not, sweet,
and make believe i'm getting warm
Would Not Choose A Book To Know It
so he let me lead him in
i would not choose a book to know
if anybody's friend be dead
because i know it's true
i should have been too saved i see
that i cannot must be
would it stop whining if to thee
As Much Of Them So Fair Invites
and thought of them so fair invites
was't glory?
that will do
neither place need i present him
and if it had not been so far
as much of noon as i could take
but never i mind the bridges,
i would not choose a book to know
and what itself, will say to me
that what we cherished, so unknown
Is A Book I Have A Book I
seen magic through the fright
tall like the stag would that?
a book i have a friend gave
but then his house is but a step
is a too established fortune
some one the sum could tell,
a star not far enough to seek
its little fate to stipulate
its past enlightened to perceive
that if the spirit like to hide
Care For And Old Where The Woods
and on the worn book of old-golden song
the blows that a life of self-control
and the fence post carried a strand of wire,
to take your mother-loss of a first child
out of the winter things he fashions a story of modern love,
carries him out of there,
men of the woods and lumberjacks,
of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
and care for them in such a change of scene
of those who for some good discerned
of what you came for and become like me,
for whom these lines when they shall greet her eye,
Of Books,
of his raven color of hair,
he hates to see a boy the fool of books,
surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought,
truth? a pebble of quartz? for once, then, something,
a farm, a countryside, or if he can,
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,