Poems about vest
Because The Bee Delirious Borne
as do the bee delirious borne
he longer must than i
they struggle some for breath
suffice us for a crowd
an ample letter how you miss
because the winds would find it out
this put away
you'll know her by her vest
The Mowing Field;
the wind the wind had meant to be -
the place it reached to blackened instantly,
toward the throne to witness there
the planets seem to interfere in their curves -
the woods come back to the mowing field;
to read the gravestones on the hill;
lay him in state on a sepal,
There In The Doctor Put Him With Ichor
of the great harvest i myself desired,
and the nature of time and space,
and heat so close in; but the thought of all
the doctor put him in the dark of ether,
there in the hush of the wood that reposes,
all simply in the springing of the year,
the understanding of a friend,
embalm him with ichor of nettle,
and the mind whirls and the heart sings,
that struck the earth,
when that was, the soft mist
neither refused the meeting, but the hand!
a flower to try its currents where they crossed,
and try to stack them in a better load,
Still,
of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
and the whimper of hawks beside the sun
enchant the land with amethyst,
and the shallow waters aflutter with wind
to the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
but the secret sits in the middle and knows,
and the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
that rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;
to read the gravestones on the hill;
make the settled snowbank steam;
and smooth and moist in vernal heat,
making the gravel leap and leap in air,
and a cellar in which the daylight falls,
With Doors That Are Slain
even the bravest that are slain
and have our fire and laugh and be afraid,�
coming and going all the time, they are,
with doors that none but the wind ever closes,
with the glittering things,
with mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
and the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns
and be glad of a good roof overhead,
looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs,
vague dream head lifted out of the ground,
He Takes It So Well
storm fear
he takes it out in bunches like big birds' nests,
and he likes having thought of it so well
so now and never any different,"
and i agree to that, or in so far
what i was walling in or walling out,
i enter alone upon the stubble field,
of the great harvest i myself desired,
something more of the depths and then i lost it,
Making The Last Went, Heavy With Dew,
the measure of the little while
i dream upon the opposing lights of the hour,
the total sky almost without defect,
and showed him, through a manhole in the floor,
making the gravel leap and leap in air,
before the last went, heavy with dew,
they might find fuel there, in withered brake,
were not the one dead, turned to their affairs,
even the bravest that are slain
Of The Shadow Of The Gaps I Myself
and setting sun to hyla brook, i gave it
i shall have less to say,
to please the yelping dogs, the gaps i mean,
of the great harvest i myself desired,
beyond the shadow of a doubt;
I Trusted The Cones Under His Pines, I
and vexes me for reason why,
and eat the cones under his pines, i tell him,
i trusted the brook barrier, but feared
i have wished a bird would fly away,
i have my fancies, it runs in the family,
of the great harvest i myself desired,
the difficulty of seeing what stood still,
but on the memory of one absent most,
to white rest, and a place of rest