I always say, I always said If I were grown and free, I’d have a gown of reddest red As fine as you could see, To wear out walking, sleek and slo…

Every love’s the love before In a duller dress. That’s the measure of my lore– Here’s my bitterness: Would I knew a little more,

For this my mother wrapped me warm… And called me home against the sto… And coaxed my infant nights to qui… And gave me roughage in my diet, And tucked me in my bed at eight,

Dearest one, when I am dead Never seek to follow me. Never mount the quiet hill Where the copper leaves are still, As my heart is, on the tree

“It’s queer,” she said; “I see th… As plain as I beheld it then, All silver—like and calm and brigh… We’ve not had stars like that agai… ”And she was such a gentle thing

And let her loves, when she is dea… Write this above her bones: “No more she lives to give us brea… Who asked her only stones.”

Tonight my love is sleeping cold Where none may see and none shall… The daisies quicken in the mold, And richer fares the meadow grass. The warding cypress pleads the ski…

We shall have our little day. Take my hand and travel still Round and round the little way, Up and down the little hill. It is good to love again;

When I was young and bold and str… Oh, right was right, and wrong was… My plume on high, my flag unfurled… I rode away to right the world. “Come out, you dogs, and fight!” s…

Lady, lady, never start Conversation toward your heart; Keep your pretty words serene; Never murmur what you mean. Show yourself, by word and look,

They say He was a serious child, And quiet in His ways; They say the gentlest lady smiled To hear the neighbors’ praise. The coffers of her heart would clo…

Oh, lead me to a quiet cell Where never footfall rankles, And bar the window passing well, And gyve my wrists and ankles. Oh, wrap my eyes with linen fair,

There’s many and many, and not so… Is willing to dry my tears away; There’s many to tell me what you a… And never a lie to all they say. It’s little the good to hide my he…

My land is bare of chattering folk… The clouds are low along the ridge… And sweet’s the air with curly smo… From all my burning bridges.

The days will rally, wreathing Their crazy tarantelle; And you must go on breathing, But I’ll be safe in hell. Like January weather,