Poems about scene
How Many Times It Ache For Me Today
without the power to die
when frightened home to thee i run
how many times it ache for me today confess
unto the scene that we do not
That Is His Business Not What
without the fear to justify
and then it's out of sight
till all the scene be gone,
and that is his business not ours
the lonesome for they know not what
so i said or thought
The Sleet Then
yet was not the foe of any
i shall not feel the sleet then
unto the scene that we do not
neither place need i present him
forgive me, if the grave come slow
the distance would not haunt me so
so short way off it seems
it was not sickness then
he hurts a little, though
some things that stay there be
came once a world did you?
Then Steered The Right To View The Night,
then steered the white moth thither in the night?
and the moth carried like a paper kite,
the life from spilling, then the boy saw all
one back and forward, in and out of shadow,
to find fused in another star,
to have inside the house with doors unlocked,
here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
to better its perch for the night,
to leave it to, whether the right to hold
before i came to view the levelled scene,
to flames without twice thinking, where it verges
dragging the whole sky with it to the hills,
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,
And, Tired Of Scene
give the buried flower a dream;
and care for them in such a change of scene
a sort of catch-all full of attic clutter,
the picture pride of hollywood,
the fen had every kind of bloom,
afraid of me, there's two can play at that,
not yet the little dotted in me seek,
cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall,
and, tired of aimless circling in one place,
even as on earth, in paradise;
and knock to the echoes as beggars for roses,
That The Kindred Spider To Her,
and presently on the scene
as where some flower lay withering on the ground,
but though they rejoiced in the nest they kept,
the boy you had in haying four years since,
that the man with the meal-sack didn't catch then,
god, what a woman! and it's come to this,
here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
what brought the kindred spider to that height,
but that was in the woods, to hold my hand
yet saw but her within,
warren returned too soon, it seemed to her,