Looking For a Sunset Bird in Winter | Poem by Robert Frost

Looking For a Sunset Bird in Winter Poem 

………………. by Robert Frost

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The west was getting out of gold,
The breath of air had died of cold,
When shoeing home across the white,
I thought I saw a bird alight.

In summer when I passed the place
I had to stop and lift my face;
A bird with an angelic gift
Was singing in it sweet and swift.

No bird was singing in it now.

A single leaf was on a bough,
And that was all there was to see
In going twice around the tree.

From my advantage on a hill
I judged that such a crystal chill
Was only adding frost to snow
As gilt to gold that wouldn’t show.

A brush had left a crooked stroke
Of what was either cloud or smoke
From north to south across the blue;
A piercing little star was through.

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Robert Frost – Poet | Academy of American Poets

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Lord Walters Wife | Poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Lord Walters Wife Poem 

………………. by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

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I

‘But where do you go?’ said the lady, while both sat under the yew,
And her eyes were alive in their depth, as the kraken beneath the sea-blue.

II

‘Because I fear you,’ he answered;–‘because you are far too fair,
And able to strangle my soul in a mesh of your golfd-coloured hair.

III

‘Oh that,’ she said, ‘is no reason! Such knots are quickly undone,
And too much beauty, I reckon, is nothing but too much sun.

IV

‘Yet farewell so,’ he answered; –‘the sunstroke’s fatal at times.

I value your husband, Lord Walter, whose gallop rings still from the limes.

V

‘Oh that,’ she said, ‘is no reason.
You smell a rose through a fence:
If two should smell it what matter? who grumbles, and where’s the pretense?

VI

‘But I,’ he replied, ‘have promised another, when love was free,
To love her alone, alone, who alone from afar loves me.

VII

‘Why, that,’ she said, ‘is no reason.
Love’s always free I am told.

Will you vow to be safe from the headache on Tuesday, and think it will hold?

VIII

‘But you,’ he replied, ‘have a daughter, a young child, who was laid
In your lap to be pure; so I leave you: the angels would make me afraid.

IX

‘Oh that,’ she said, ‘is no reason.
The angels keep out of the way;
And Dora, the child, observes nothing, although you should please me and stay.

X

At which he rose up in his anger,–‘Why now, you no longer are fair!
Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and hateful, I swear.

XI

At which she laughed out in her scorn: ‘These men! Oh these men overnice,
Who are shocked if a colour not virtuous is frankly put on by a vice.

XII

Her eyes blazed upon him–‘And you! You bring us your vices so near
That we smell them! You think in our presence a thought ‘twould defame us to hear!

XIII

‘What reason had you, and what right,–I appel to your soul from my life,–
To find me so fair as a woman? Why, sir, I am pure, and a wife.

XIV

‘Is the day-star too fair up above you? It burns you not.
Dare you imply
I brushed you more close than the star does, when Walter had set me as high?

XV

‘If a man finds a woman too fair, he means simply adapted too much
To use unlawful and fatal.
The praise! –shall I thank you for such?

XVI

‘Too fair?–not unless you misuse us! and surely if, once in a while,
You attain to it, straightaway you call us no longer too fair, but too vile.

XVII

‘A moment,–I pray your attention!–I have a poor word in my head
I must utter, though womanly custom would set it down better unsaid.

XVIII

‘You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when I showed you a ring.

You kissed my fan when I dropped it.
No matter! I’ve broken the thing.

XIX

‘You did me the honour, perhaps, to be moved at my side now and then
In the senses–a vice, I have heard, which is common to beasts and some men.

XX

‘Love’s a virtue for heroes!–as white as the snow on high hills,
And immortal as every great soul is that struggles, endures, and fulfils.

XXI
‘I love my Walter profoundly,–you, Maude, though you faltered a week,
For the sake of .
.
.
what is it–an eyebrow? or, less still, a mole on the cheek?

XXII
‘And since, when all’s said, you’re too noble to stoop to the frivolous cant
About crimes irresistable, virtues that swindle, betray and supplant.

XXIII

‘I determined to prove to yourself that, whate’er you might dream or avow
By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me than you have now.

XXIV

‘There! Look me full in the face!–in the face.
Understand, if you can,
That the eyes of such women as I am are clean as the palm of a man.

XXV
‘Drop his hand, you insult him.
Avoid us for fear we should cost you a scar–
You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for the women we are.

XXVI

‘You wronged me: but then I considered .
.
.
there’s Walter! And so at the end
I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, in the hand of a friend.

XXVII

‘Have I hurt you indeed? We are quits then.
Nay, friend of my Walter, be mine!
Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me to ask him to dine.

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning – Poet | Academy of American Poets

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Lost Mistress | Poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Lost Mistress Poem 

………………. by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

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All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!

II.

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
—You know the red turns grey.

III.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:

IV.

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!—

V.

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!

II.

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
—You know the red turns grey.

III.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:

IV.

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!—

V.

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!

II.

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
—You know the red turns grey.

III.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:

IV.

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!—

V.

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!

II.

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
—You know the red turns grey.

III.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:

IV.

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!—

V.

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!

II.

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
—You know the red turns grey.

III.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:

IV.

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!—

V.

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!

II.

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
—You know the red turns grey.

III.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:

IV.

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!—

V.

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!

II.

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
—You know the red turns grey.

III.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:

IV.

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!—

V.

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!

II.

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
—You know the red turns grey.

III.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:

IV.

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!—

V.

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!

II.

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
—You know the red turns grey.

III.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:

IV.

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!—

V.

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!

II.

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
—You know the red turns grey.

III.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:

IV.

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!—

V.

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning – Wikipedia

Elizabeth Barrett Browning – Poet | Academy of American Poets

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We hope you enjoyed the Lost Mistress Poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Love and a Question | Poem by Robert Frost

Love and a Question Poem 

………………. by Robert Frost

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A stranger came to the door at eve,
And he spoke the bridegroom fair.

He bore a green-white stick in his hand,
And, for all burden, care.

He asked with the eyes more than the lips
For a shelter for the night,
And he turned and looked at the road afar
Without a window light.

The bridegroom came forth into the porch
With, ‘Let us look at the sky,
And question what of the night to be,
Stranger, you and I.

The woodbine leaves littered the yard,
The woodbine berries were blue,
Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;
‘Stranger, I wish I knew.

Within, the bride in the dusk alone
Bent over the open fire,
Her face rose-red with the glowing coal
And the thought of the heart’s desire.

The bridegroom looked at the weary road,
Yet saw but her within,
And wished her heart in a case of gold
And pinned with a silver pin.

The bridegroom thought it little to give
A dole of bread, a purse,
A heartfelt prayer for the poor of God,
Or for the rich a curse;

But whether or not a man was asked
To mar the love of two
By harboring woe in the bridal house,
The bridegroom wished he knew.

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Love and Harmony | Poem by William Blake

Love and Harmony Poem 

………………. by William Blake

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Love and harmony combine,
And round our souls entwine
While thy branches mix with mine,
And our roots together join.

Joys upon our branches sit,
Chirping loud and singing sweet;
Like gentle streams beneath our feet
Innocence and virtue meet.

Thou the golden fruit dost bear,
I am clad in flowers fair;
Thy sweet boughs perfume the air,
And the turtle buildeth there.

There she sits and feeds her young,
Sweet I hear her mournful song;
And thy lovely leaves among,
There is love, I hear his tongue.

There his charming nest doth lay,
There he sleeps the night away;
There he sports along the day,
And doth among our branches play.

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Love walked alone | Poem by Stephen Crane

Love walked alone Poem 

………………. by Stephen Crane

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Love walked alone.

The rocks cut her tender feet,
And the brambles tore her fair limbs.

There came a companion to her,
But, alas, he was no help,
For his name was heart’s pain.

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Mad Song | Poem by William Blake

Mad Song Poem 

………………. by William Blake

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The wild winds weep
And the night is a-cold;
Come hither, Sleep,
And my griefs infold:
But lo! the morning peeps
Over the eastern steeps,
And the rustling birds of dawn
The earth do scorn.

Lo! to the vault
Of paved heaven,
With sorrow fraught
My notes are driven:
They strike the ear of night,
Make weep the eyes of day;
They make mad the roaring winds,
And with tempests play.

Like a fiend in a cloud,
With howling woe,
After night I do crowd,
And with night will go;
I turn my back to the east,
From whence comforts have increas’d;
For light doth seize my brain
With frantic pain.

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Many red devils ran from my heart | Poem by Stephen Crane

Many red devils ran from my heart Poem 

………………. by Stephen Crane

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Many red devils ran from my heart
And out upon the page,
They were so tiny
The pen could mash them.

And many struggled in the ink.

It was strange
To write in this red muck
Of things from my heart.

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Many workmen | Poem by Stephen Crane

Many workmen Poem 

………………. by Stephen Crane

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Many workmen
Built a huge ball of masonry
Upon a mountain-top.

Then they went to the valley below,
And turned to behold their work.

“It is grand,” they said;
They loved the thing.

Of a sudden, it moved:
It came upon them swiftly;
It crushed them all to blood.

But some had opportunity to squeal.

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Maple | Poem by Robert Frost

Maple Poem 

………………. by Robert Frost

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Her teacher’s certainty it must be Mabel
Made Maple first take notice of her name.

She asked her father and he told her, “Maple?
Maple is right.

“But teacher told the school
There’s no such name.

“Teachers don’t know as much
As fathers about children, you tell teacher.

You tell her that it’s M-A-P-L-E.

You ask her if she knows a maple tree.

Well, you were named after a maple tree.

Your mother named you.
You and she just saw
Each other in passing in the room upstairs,
One coming this way into life, and one
Going the other out of life?you know?
So you can’t have much recollection of her.

She had been having a long look at you.

She put her finger in your cheek so hard
It must have made your dimple there, and said,
‘Maple.
‘ I said it too: ‘Yes, for her name.

She nodded.
So we’re sure there’s no mistake.

I don’t know what she wanted it to mean,
But it seems like some word she left to bid you
Be a good girl?be like a maple tree.

How like a maple tree’s for us to guess.

Or for a little girl to guess sometime.

Not now?at least I shouldn’t try too hard now.

By and by I will tell you all I know
About the different trees, and something, too,
About your mother that perhaps may help.

Dangerous self-arousing words to sow.

Luckily all she wanted of her name then
Was to rebuke her teacher with it next day,
And give the teacher a scare as from her father.

Anything further had been wasted on her,
Or so he tried to think to avoid blame.

She would forget it.
She all but forgot it.

What he sowed with her slept so long a sleep,
And came so near death in the dark of years,
That when it woke and came to life again
The flower was different from the parent seed.

It carne back vaguely at the glass one day,
As she stood saying her name over aloud,
Striking it gently across her lowered eyes
To make it go well with the way she looked.

What was it about her name? Its strangeness lay
In having too much meaning.
Other names,
As Lesley, Carol, Irma, Marjorie,
Signified nothing.
Rose could have a meaning,
But hadn’t as it went.
(She knew a Rose.
)
This difference from other names it was
Made people notice it?and notice her.

(They either noticed it, or got it wrong.
)
Her problem was to find out what it asked
In dress or manner of the girl who bore it.

If she could form some notion of her mother?
What she bad thought was lovely, and what good.

This was her mother’s childhood home;
The house one story high in front, three stories
On the end it presented to the road.

(The arrangement made a pleasant sunny cellar.
)
Her mother’s bedroom was her father’s still,
Where she could watch her mother’s picture fading.

Once she found for a bookmark in the Bible
A maple leaf she thought must have been laid
In wait for her there.
She read every word
Of the two pages it was pressed between,
As if it was her mother speaking to her.

But forgot to put the leaf back in closing
And lost the place never to read again.

She was sure, though, there had been nothing in it.

So she looked for herself, as everyone
Looks for himself, more or less outwardly.

And her self-seeking, fitful though it was,
May still have been what led her on to read,
And think a little, and get some city schooling.

She learned shorthand, whatever shorthand may
Have had to do with it–she sometimes wondered.

So, till she found herself in a strange place
For the name Maple to have brought her to,
Taking dictation on a paper pad
And, in the pauses when she raised her eyes,
Watching out of a nineteenth story window
An airship laboring with unshiplike motion
And a vague all-disturbing roar above the river
Beyond the highest city built with hands.

Someone was saying in such natural tones
She almost wrote the words down on her knee,
“Do you know you remind me of a tree–
A maple tree?”

“Because my name is Maple?”
“Isn’t it Mabel? I thought it was Mabel.

“No doubt you’ve heard the office call me Mabel.

I have to let them call me what they like.

They were both stirred that he should have divined
Without the name her personal mystery.

It made it seem as if there must be something
She must have missed herself.
So they were married,
And took the fancy home with them to live by.

They went on pilgrimage once to her father’s
(The house one story high in front, three stories
On the side it presented to the road)
To see if there was not some special tree
She might have overlooked.
They could find none,
Not so much as a single tree for shade,
Let alone grove of trees for sugar orchard.

She told him of the bookmark maple leaf
In the big Bible, and all she remembered
of the place marked with it?”Wave offering,
Something about wave offering, it said.

“You’ve never asked your father outright, have you?”

“I have, and been Put off sometime, I think.

(This was her faded memory of the way
Once long ago her father had put himself off.
)
“Because no telling but it may have been
Something between your father and your mother
Not meant for us at all.

“Not meant for me?
Where would the fairness be in giving me
A name to carry for life and never know
The secret of?”
“And then it may have been
Something a father couldn’t tell a daughter
As well as could a mother.
And again
It may have been their one lapse into fancy
‘Twould be too bad to make him sorry for
By bringing it up to him when be was too old.

Your father feels us round him with our questing,
And holds us off unnecessarily,
As if he didn’t know what little thing
Might lead us on to a discovery.

It was as personal as be could be
About the way he saw it was with you
To say your mother, bad she lived, would be
As far again as from being born to bearing.

“Just one look more with what you say in mind,
And I give up”; which last look came to nothing.

But though they now gave up the search forever,
They clung to what one had seen in the other
By inspiration.
It proved there was something.

They kept their thoughts away from when the maples
Stood uniform in buckets, and the steam
Of sap and snow rolled off the sugarhouse.

When they made her related to the maples,
It was the tree the autumn fire ran through
And swept of leathern leaves, but left the bark
Unscorched, unblackened, even, by any smoke.

They always took their holidays in autumn.

Once they came on a maple in a glade,
Standing alone with smooth arms lifted up,
And every leaf of foliage she’d worn
Laid scarlet and pale pink about her feet.

But its age kept them from considering this one.

Twenty-five years ago at Maple’s naming
It hardly could have been a two-leaved seedling
The next cow might have licked up out at pasture.

Could it have been another maple like it?
They hovered for a moment near discovery,
Figurative enough to see the symbol,
But lacking faith in anything to mean
The same at different times to different people.

Perhaps a filial diffidence partly kept them
From thinking it could be a thing so bridal.

And anyway it came too late for Maple.

She used her hands to cover up her eyes.

“We would not see the secret if we could now:
We are not looking for it any more.

Thus had a name with meaning, given in death,
Made a girl’s marriage, and ruled in her life.

No matter that the meaning was not clear.

A name with meaning could bring up a child,
Taking the child out of the parents’ hands.

Better a meaningless name, I should say,
As leaving more to nature and happy chance.

Name children some names and see what you do.

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