Poems about term
I Had No Notice Gave She, But This,
and i, and silence, some strange race
which, sir, are you and which am i
would be acuter, would it not
i had no cause to be awake
oh if there may departing be
i will not name it in the street
the things that death will buy
the first that i could recollect
but this, might be my brief term
no notice gave she, but a change
and grateful that a thing
he offers his berry, just the same
I Read The Way,
we wondered at our blindness
a thought went up my mind to-day
sounds long, until i read the place
it seemed the common way,
but this, might be my brief term
and a hoarse "get out of the way, i say,"
"would'st climb," i said?
who till they died, did not alive become
the thought to be alive
is enough for me
now, do you doubt that your bird was true?
i can't tell you but you feel it
i should not dare to leave my friend,
it kept me from a thief, i think,
They're Here, Though; Not A Further Use
patience of opposing forces
peace by its battles told
because the food exterminate
and are today if we exist
you did not state your price
they're here, though; not a creature failed
had not a further use
You It You Almost Pitied It Wisdom Was
what comfort was it wisdom was
and the surrender mine
ours be the tossing wild though the sea
could i do more for thee
you almost pitied it you it worked so
i too if he
i knew so perfect yesterday
for thinking while i die
myself the term between
some work for immortality
Let's Asleep
not all the snows could make it white
i would not mind the journey there
turn on me when i fail or feign,
if you remember, and were saved
might some one else so learned be,
let's play those never come!
to make sure all's asleep
when i go out of time
just one time!
term of light this day begun!
that passed, an hour ago!
touch liberty then know no more,
came once a world did you?
although i knew to take it
No More
no more he singeth mournful, her sadness she doth lose,
but, what of that?
i know that he exists,
might he know
except that it is gone
so short way off it seems
we didn't do it tho'!
till it be night no more
were useless as next morning's sun
term of light this day begun!
what need of day
To Say It Out,
to watch his woods fill up with snow,
to put a tree between us when he lighted,
before he arrives to say it out,
where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets,
before he came to the land of spain,
out of the winter things he fashions a story of modern love,
of tears, the aftermark
some guttural exclamation of surprise
of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
Far Off The Face Of Trees,
a moment sought in air his flower of rest,
beyond the shadow of a doubt;
so inconsolably in the face of love,
the stricken flower bent double and so hung,
salmon and sturgeon, lashing with their tails,
far off the homes of men, and farther still,
the light of heaven falls whole and white
of things of moment to which, they wist,
before he came to the land of spain,
all simply in the springing of the year,
not of woods only and the shade of trees,
and the world had found new terms of worth,
bring the singer, bring the nester;
the work of hunters is another thing,
in the shape of a man,
All Of One Position,
holding the curve of one position,
now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
to white rest, and a place of rest
that trouble the sleep of lumber folk,
all song of the woods is crushed like some
and the world had found new terms of worth,
and every fleck of russet showing clear,
assorted characters of death and blight
and the nature of time and space,
the obscuration upon earth,
and the pile somewhat sunken, clematis
The Turn Of Eve
from having heard the daylong voice of eve
he arrives at the turn of the year,
and at the other end the microscope,
the headless aftermath,
The Secret Sits In The Birds, Without The
with the royal heart of robert the bruce
but the secret sits in the middle and knows,
the headless aftermath,
without the birds, without the breeze,
far off the homes of men, and farther still,
the curve of earth, and striking, break their own;
that rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;
He Calls On Stone,
they make us cringe for metal-point on stone,
on through the watching for that early birth
to drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs
and tripped the body, shot the spirit on
years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
and the nature of time and space,
the spoils of the dead,
then the rain stopped and the blowing,
kicking his way down through the air to the ground,
he calls on change through the violence of the elements,
with the glittering things,
and the awe passes wonder then,
and the world had found new terms of worth,
more blameless in the sense of being less
The Beady Spider, The Wind Out Of
the first tool i step on
if i was not to speak of it to you
and often they brought so much to say
i shall have less to say,
what had how long it takes a birch to rot
what brought the kindred spider to that height?
to see, if in a dream they brought of you,
in one last look the way they must not go,
but not long since in the lumber camps,
where the boughs rain when it blows,
but the wind out of doors�you know the saying,
but the secret sits in the middle and knows,
the headless aftermath,
the beady spider, the flower like a froth,
and the awe passes wonder then,
Melting Further In The Hush Of The
lay him in state on a sepal,
and in conjunction giving quite a spread,
and melting further in the wind to mud,
the barren boughs without the leaves,
all simply in the springing of the year,
against the uttermost of earth,
with the slow smokeless burning of decay,
the picture pride of hollywood,
of something interposed between their sight
there in the hush of the wood that reposes,
and the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
and brush the mow with the summer load,
unless in the horizon rim,
his gains in heaven are what they are,
although they are no less there,
The Wood;
and the body he wore
in all the country he did command
he meant to clear the upper pasture, too,
they bring the telephone and telegraph,
for the wood wakes, and you are here for proof,
but they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
the measure of the little while
the fruited bough of the juniper
it was far in the sameness of the wood;
the tuft of flowers
the dead of the commissary
the headless aftermath,
the gathering of the souls for birth,
Sideways, That Had As The Porch, Then Drew
and back and forth he sways from cheek to cheek,
sideways, that would have run her on the stove
and set them on the porch, then drew him down
as she flings over and off down through the maples,
that had as many motions as the world,
and the world had found new terms of worth,
and little of love could know,
and whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
and was always a rose,
a baggy figure, equally pathetic