I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.
I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute
And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.
(For the Rev. James J. Daly, S. J.)
Bright stars, yellow stars, flashing through the air,
Are you errant strands of Lady Mary's hair?
Squire Adam had two wives, they say,
Two wives had he, for his delight,
He kissed and clypt them all the day
And clypt and kissed them all the night.
1 My shoulders ache beneath my pack
2 (Lie easier, Cross, upon His back).
3 I march with feet that burn and smart
Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus,
Now by what whim of wanton chance
Do radiant eyes know sombre days?
There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout,
But there's nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished out.
I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years ago,
And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so.
(For Robert Cortez Holliday)
If I should live in a forest
And sleep underneath a tree,
(For Sara Teasdale)
The lonely farm, the crowded street,
The palace and the slum,