The trees are barren when the summer’s lost:
But one tree keeps its goodness all the year.
Green pine, unchanging as the days go by,
Thou art thyself beneath whatever sky:
My shelter from all winds, my own strong pine,
‘Tis spring, ’tis summer, still, while thou art mine.
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Alas, I thought this forest must be true,
I thought the growing things were as I knew,And not a mock; I thought at least the skiesWere honest and would keep that happy blueThey used to wear before I learned to see.But woe the day!Lo, I have wandered forth and thought to stayHere where some gladness still might be for me,Where some delightShould still…
A FLOWER was growing alone,
Some one came by,Saw the flower how fair it had grown,Chose it, plucked it to die.And what is a flower alone,Then alone and for ever alone,Come no one by?Why should a flower be fair for its own?Choose it, pluck it to die.
WHILE the woods were green,
Leaping, longing, in my breast:Let him come that loves me true,Let him come that I love best,I will tell him what I mean,Now the wood-birds tell it too,Now the woods are green.’While the woods were bare,‘Oh I’ she sighed, ‘my heart is grey,Shrinking, shivering, in my breast:Love me, hate me, as they may,None of them…
I DID not think to love her. As we go
Fresh, and at hand; and not the less we knowThat where rich garden blossoms take the breathWith eddying sweets and wear a thousand huesWe shall be fain to linger and to choose.And who indeedWould pass the garden by to choose the weed,The little wayside rose we hold and lose?Fair; and so loving. With the young…
‘Tis men who say that through all hurt and pain
And breathes the sweeter and will more unfoldFor winds that tear it, and the sorrowful rain.So in a thousand voices has the strainOf this dear patient madness been retold,That men call woman’s love. Ah! they are bold,Naming for love that grief which does remain.Love faints that looks on baseness face to face:Love pardons all; but…
SOME quick kind tears, some easy sorrow,
‘Twas sad; yet sadness has its morrow;Blue skies succeed skies overcast:Why should grief last?Something that’s passing, something dying.Well, weep one’s fill,Spend grief’s sweet courtesy, go sighing;But violets break from snow-time’s chill:Who can mourn still?Aye, let me pass. No life will miss meSave few first days.A shudder, stooping down to kiss me,A little love and tardy…