As the tide rises, the closed mollusc Opens a fraction to the ocean's food, Bathed in its riches. Do not ask What force would do, or if force could.
A knife is of no use against a fortress. You might break it to pieces as gulls do. No, only the rising tide and its slow progress Opens the shell. Lovers, I tell you true.
I I wandered through a house of many rooms. It grew darker and darker, Until, at last, I could only find my way By passing my fingers along the wall. Suddenly my hand shot through an open window, And the thorn of a rose I could not see Pricked it so sharply That I cried aloud.
II I dug a grave under an oak-tree. With infinite care, I stamped my spade Into the heavy grass. The sod sucked it,
The houses I had they took away from me. The times happened to be unpropitious: war, destruction, exile; sometimes the hunter hits the migratory birds, sometimes he doesn’t hit them. Hunting was good in my time, many felt the pellet; the rest circle aimlessly or go mad in the shelters.
Either she was foul, or her attire was bad, Or she was not the wench I wished t’have had. Idly I lay with her, as if I loved not, And like a burden grieved the bed that moved not. Yet though both of us performed our true intent, Yet I could not cast anchor where I meant. She on my neck her ivory arms did throw, Her arms far whiter than the Scythian snow.
They were the local Ohio palm, tropic in the heat of trains. They could grow in anything—pitch, whole grain, cinders, ash and rust, the dirt dumped back of the foundry, what
the men wore home. Little willows, they were made to be brushed back by the traffic of boxcars the way wind will dust the shade of the small part of a river.—They'd
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples 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 rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
The man splitting wood in the daybreak looks strong, as though, if one weakened, one could turn to him and he would help. Gus Newland was strong. When he split wood he struck hard, flashing the bright steel through the air so hard the hard maple leapt apart, as it’s feared marriages will do in countries reluctant to permit divorce,
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