Category Poem

The sky is low, the clouds are mean, A travelling flake of snow Across a barn or through a rut Debates if it will go. A narrow wind complains all day How some one treated him; Nature, like us, is…

The Skies can’t keep their secret! They tell it to the Hills— The Hills just tell the Orchards— And they—the Daffodils! A Bird—by chance—that goes that way— Soft overhears the whole— If I should bribe the little Bird— Who knows…

The show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be. Fair play– Both went to see.

The Service without Hope— Is tenderest, I think— Because ’tis unsustained By stint—Rewarded Work— Has impetus of Gain— And impetus of Goal— There is no Diligence like that That knows not an Until—

The Rose did caper on her cheek— Her Bodice rose and fell— Her pretty speech—like drunken men— Did stagger pitiful— Her fingers fumbled at her work— Her needle would not go— What ailed so smart a little Maid— It puzzled…

The Robin’s my Criterion for Tune— Because I grow—where Robins do— But, were I Cuckoo born— I’d swear by him— The ode familiar—rules the Noon— The Buttercup’s, my Whim for Bloom— Because, we’re Orchard sprung— But, were I Britain born,…

The Robin is the One That interrupt the Morn With hurried—few—express Reports When March is scarcely on— The Robin is the One That overflow the Noon With her cherubic quantity— An April but begun— The Robin is the One That…

The Robin for the Crumb Returns no syllable But long records the Lady’s name In Silver Chronicle.

The Red—Blaze—is the Morning— The Violet—is Noon— The Yellow—Day—is falling— And after that—is none— But Miles of Sparks—at Evening— Reveal the Width that burned— The Territory Argent—that Never yet—consumed—

The rainbow never tells me That gust and storm are by, Yet is she more convincing Than Philosophy. My flowers turn from Forums— Yet eloquent declare What Cato couldn’t prove me Except the birds were here!