There’s a place called Far-away MeadowWe never shall mow in again,Or such is the talk at the farmhouse:The meadow is finished with men.Then now is the chance for the flowersThat can’t stand mowers and plowers.It must be now, through, in seasonBefore the not mowing brings trees on,Before trees, seeing the opening,March into a shadowy claim.The…

I staid the night for shelter at a farmBehind the mountains, with a mother and son,Two old-believers. They did all the talking. MOTHER Folks think a witch who has familiar spiritsShe could call up to pass a winter evening,But won’t, should be burned at the stake or something.Summoning spirits isn’t ‘Button, button,Who’s got the button,’…

More than halfway up the passWas a spring with a broken drinking glass,And whether the farmer drank or notHis mare was sure to observe the spotBy cramping the wheel on a water-bar,turning her forehead with a star,And straining her ribs for a monster sigh;To which the farmer would make reply,‘A sigh for every so many…

The three stood listening to a fresh accessOf wind that caught against the house a moment,Gulped snow, and then blew free again-the ColesDressed, but dishevelled from some hours of sleep,Meserve belittled in the great skin coat he wore. Meserve was first to speak. He pointed backwardOver his shoulder with his pipe-stem, saying,‘You can just see…

What tree may not the fig be gathered from?The grape may not be gathered from the birch?It’s all you know the grape, or know the birch.As a girl gathered from the birch myselfEqually with my weight in grapes, one autumn,I ought to know what tree the grape is fruit of.I was born, I suppose, like…

The surest thing there is is we are riders,And though none too successful at it, guiders,Through everything presented, land and tideAnd now the very air, of what we ride. What is this talked-of mystery of birthBut being mounted bareback on the earth?We can just see the infant up astride,His small fist buried in the bushy…

I stay;But it isn’t as ifThere wasn’t always Hudson’s BayAnd the fur trade,A small skiffAnd a paddle blade. I can just see my tent pegged,And me on the floor,Cross-legged,And a trapper looking in at the doorWith furs to sell. His name’s Joe,Alias John,And between what he doesn’t knowAnd won’t tellAbout where Henry Hudson’s gone,I can’t…

I let myself in at the kitchen door.‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘I can’t get up. Forgive meNot answering your knock. I can no moreLet people in than I can keep them out.I’m getting too old for my size, I tell them.My fingers are about all I’ve the use ofSo’s to take any comfort. I can…

I met a lady from the South who said(You won’t believe she said it, but she said it):‘None of my family ever worked, or hadA thing to sell.’ I don’t suppose the workMuch matters. You may work for all of me.I’ve seen the time I’ve had to work myself.The having anything to sell is whatIs…

Builder, in building the little house,In every way you may please yourself;But please please me in the kitchen chimney:Don’t build me a chimney upon a shelf. However far you must go for bricks,Whatever they cost a-piece or a pound,But me enough for a full-length chimney,And build the chimney clear from the ground. It’s not that…