Poems about yellow
Somehow, It
for fear their yellow gown
and ask my business there,
the wind didn't come from the orchard today
than life had done before it
somehow, it will be even
to see if it was there
but there is no gratitude
danger! what is that to her?
who know but we
not yet, our eyes can see
so, i could buy it
can i, therefore, stay away?
i reason, earth is short
nor ever now so sweet
As Small They Say As Small They Say
two armies, love and certainty
and so i always bear the cup
i thought how yellow it would look
as small they say as i
and that i am coming too
the other only hear
The Good Will Of A Yellow Eye
to whom he could entrust his wavering gaze
the nearer they departed us
the dust behind i strove to join
on whom i lay a yellow eye
the dead shall go in white
we are the flower thou the sun!
the good will of a flower
could but a crier of the joy
As We Who Danger And The Dead Had
who danger and the dead had faced,
and when i looked again
the only shows i see
he found my being set it up
i never thought to see
i thought how yellow it would look
so short way off it seems
as we who never can
while he was making one
i never put it down
This, And Would As The Bees
for fear their yellow gown
and their young will
and so
this, and my heart, and all the bees
and as the rose appears,
and would as soon surmise
how much can come
to lives that stoop to notice mine
too near to heaven to fear
those who begin today
then to him who bear
Then Took The Daylight Falls,
since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven as yet
erect, but not without its waves, as when
then, as if they were something that, though strange,
then took the other, as just as fair,
where bird and flower were one and the same,
and a cellar in which the daylight falls,
two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
The People Look At A Star Quaking
before the age of the fern;
such is the uncaged progress of the bear,
you're one month on in the middle of may,
within, the bride in the dusk alone
and the sun shrunken yellow in smoke,
at a star quaking in the other end,
and the people look at the sea,
She,
so small the window frames the whole of it,
but still lies pointed as it plowed the dust,
but still lies pointed as it ploughed the dust,
as where some flower lay withering on the ground,
the moon, the little silver cloud, and she,
and the sun shrunken yellow in smoke,
before the last went, heavy with dew,
that tinged the atmosphere,
perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
had it been the will of the wind, was left
that trouble the sleep of lumber folk,
turn the poet out of door,
as where some flower lay withering on the ground,