Poems about judge
A Bird
bereavement in their death to feel
the first day that i was a life
my friend must be a bird
that this way thou could'st notice me
the day that i shall go
and a hoarse "get out of the way, i say,"
but there's the "judgement day"!
and after that there's heaven
most like their glory show
Just For One To Stipulate
be of me afraid,
he will tell me what "peter" promised
they'd judge us how
but just for one to stipulate
because there was a winter once
because escape is done
done
just we two meet
i think a little well like mine
closer so i at my sleeping
I Hung Upon The Same
and tell him charge thee speak it plain
but tell him that it ceased to feel
where it used to be
i know not which, desire, or grant
and this one do not feel the same
what and if it be
because i cannot see
so satisfied to go
came out to look at me -
feeling as if their pillow heard,
i hung upon the peg, at night,
i pondered, may have judged,
i would not weep if i were they
and the day that i despaired
when was it can you tell
`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
The Wish Was Strong,
and i judge from that elysian freight
the advantages it has, so long and narrow,
however it is in some other world
and truly it was fair enough for flowers
but it's not so, the place is the asylum,
but did not enter, though the wish was strong,
i know that this is way in ours,
and that was why it whispered and did not speak,
not to believe the phoebes wept,
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,