Poems about chief
So He Let Me
not subject to despair
what if i file this mortal off
contenteder if once
i want was chief it said
that they have done expecting me
so he let me lead him in
Bereft I Found
nor how ourselves be justified
without the fear to justify
and there, the matter ends
they're here, though; not a creature failed
nor, for myself, i came so far
bereft i was of what i knew not
nor was i hungry so i found
i want was chief it said
I Meant To Be
your riches taught me poverty,
but, lest the soul like fair "priscilla"
where dawn knows how to be
you almost feel the date
but that will hold
what right have i to be a bride
why heaven did not break away
unworthy, that a thought so mean
how goblin it would be
whether a thief did it
but dying is a different way
this seems a home
we are far too grand
i meant to have but modest needs
i want was chief it said
Firm They Soon Saw He Wouldn't Advise
but he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom,
a light he was to no one but himself
that not everybody else knew was to count
they soon saw he would do someone a mischief
and still she had all they had they the lucky!
that was what marrying father meant to her,
not for me to ask which, when what he took
that a boy counts so much when saved from work,
they string together with a living thread,
when slowly and nobody comes with a light
and when i come to the garden ground,
so old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
the stricken flower bent double and so hung,
had wound strings round and round it like a bundle,
They Soon Saw He Would Do Someone A
he has a plan, you mustn't laugh at him,
if overjoyed he was at having got me
they soon saw he would do someone a mischief
i can remember when he was a pup,
but i was well
Far In The Scythe Had To Me, I
listen to me, i won't come down the stairs,"
"i want him to, he'll have to soon or late,"
he had to take the best way he knew how
where i must judge if what he knew about an axe
they soon saw he would do someone a mischief
you'll be surprised at him how much he's broken,
a small bird flew before me, he was careful
where the bird was before it flew,
far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?
through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared,
across the reeds to a window light,