A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master, With doors that none but the wind ever closes, Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster; It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses. ...
The tree the tempest with a crash of wood Throws down in front of us is not bar Our passage to our journey's end for good, But just to ask us who we think we are ...
The battle rent a cobweb diamond-strung And cut a flower beside a ground bird's nest Before it stained a single human breast. The stricken flower bent double and so hung....
Out through the fields and the woods And over the walls I have wended; I have climbed the hills of view And looked at the world, and descended; I have come by the highway home, And lo, it is ended....
The surest thing there is is we are riders, And though none too successful at it, guiders, Through everything presented, land and tide And now the very air, of what we ride. ...
A saturated meadow, Sun-shaped and jewel-small, A circle scarcely wider Than the trees around were tall; Where winds were quite excluded, And the air was stifling sweet...
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; ...
The rose is a rose, And was always a rose. But now the theory goes That the apple's a rose, And the pear is, and so's The plum, I suppose. The dear only knows What will next prove a rose....
Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall, We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, 'Whose colt?' A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall, The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head...
He is said to have been the last Red man In Action. And the Miller is said to have laughed If you like to call such a sound a laugh. But he gave no one else a laugher's license....