Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fastIn a field I looked into going past,And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,But a few weeds and stubble showing last. The woods around it have it – it is theirs.All animals are smothered in their lairs.I am too absent-spirited to count;The loneliness includes me unawares. And

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,And here on earth come emulating flies,That though they never equal stars in size,(And they were never really stars at heart)Achieve at times a very star-like start.Only, of course, they can’t sustain the part.

Where had I heard this wind beforeChange like this to a deeper roar?What would it take my standing there for,Holding open a restive door,Looking down hill to a frothy shore?Summer was past and the day was past.Sombre clouds in the west were massed.Out on the porch’s sagging floor,Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,Blindly

All out of doors looked darkly in at himThrough the thin frost, almost in separate stars,That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.What kept his eyes from giving back the gazeWas the lamp tilted near them in his hand.What kept him from remembering what it wasThat brought him to that creaking room was age.He stood

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,The road is forlorn all day,Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,And the hoof-prints vanish away.The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,Expend their bloom in vain.Come over the hills and far with me,And be my love in the rain. The birds have less to say for themselvesIn the

My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a treeToward heaven still.And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fillBeside it, and there may be two or threeApples I didn’t pick upon some bough.But I am done with apple-picking now.Essence of winter sleep is on the night,The scent of apples; I am drowsing off.I cannot shake the shimmer

The heart can think of no devotionGreater than being shore to ocean –Holding the curve of one position,Counting an endless repetition.

She is as in a field a silken tentAt midday when the sunny summer breezeHas dried the dew and all its ropes relent,So that in guys it gently sways at ease,And its supporting central cedar pole,That is its pinnacle to heavenwardAnd signifies the sureness of the soul,Seems to owe naught to any single cord,But strictly

There sandy seems the golden skyAnd golden seems the sandy plain.No habitation meets the eyeUnless in the horizon rim,Some halfway up the limestone wall,That spot of black is not a stainOr shadow, but a cavern hole,Where someone used to climb and crawlTo rest from his besetting fears.I see the callus on his soulThe disappearing last

I had withdrawn in forest, and my songWas swallowed up in leaves that blew alway;And to the forest edge you came one day(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,But did not enter, though the wish was strong:You shook your pensive head as who should say,‘I dare not—too far in his footsteps stray—He must