Poems about fix
Out, And Hold My Life, And Hold
what more the woman can,
to hold my life, and hold my ears
fixed full, and steady, on his own
and out, and easy on
and mine's in heaven you see,
Would Do
i could not bear to live aloud
no other art would do
would you like summer?
taste of ours,
i could not fix the year,
Tell That No One Else Would Miss
the flower must not blame the bee
tell that the worst, is easy in a moment
as one who for a further life
had he the power to dream
the one that no one else would miss
i could not fix the year,
i do not need a light
where he turned so, and i turned how
did they come back no more?
are we that wait sufficient worth
Does Not Fix The Suns
and sigh for lack of heaven but not
where none of us should be,
nor definitely what it was,
it only moved as do the suns
i thought it would be opposite
does not know they are
as small they say as i
i could not prove the years had feet
i could not fix the year,
So Out Of A Sort Of A
and fixity in our joys,
that gathers on the pane in empty rooms,
as on a farm, but planets, evening stars
years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
for such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
and whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
out of a house and so out of a farm
and you're two months back in the middle of march,
I Have Promises To Keep,
i was something among the leaves i sought
since first i saw thee glance,
any fixed wages, though i wish i could,'
i should suppose, i can't say i see how,
and tell you that i saw does still abide,
but i have promises to keep,
but the mountains i raise
i shouldn't mind his bettering himself
are you dumb because you know me not,
i heard you talk,
One Back And Stopped The Stiffness Out Of
but now he brushed the shavings from his knee
he never found her, though he looked
only to lose it when he pirouettes,
and then he'd crow as if he thought that child's play
and he likes having thought of it so well
i have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
until he took the stiffness out of them,
and where they sought without the sword
the birds that came to it through the air
that slowly dawned behind the trees,
deeper down in the well than where the water
one back and forward, in and out of shadow,
with straining in the world's embrace,
and fixity in our joys,