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Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Whose woods there are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
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There was never a sound beside the wood but one, And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground. What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself; Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun, Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound ¦¡ And that was why it whispered and did not speak It was no dream of the gift of idle hours, Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf: Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows, Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers (Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake. The fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.
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Love And Question
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 harbouring woe in the bridal house, The bridegroom wished he knew.
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Revelation
We make ourselves a place apart Behind light words that tease and flout, But oh, the agitated heart Till someone really find us out.
'Tis pity if the case require (Or so we say) that in the end We speak the literal to inspire The understanding of a friend.
But so with all, from babes that play At hide-and-seek to God afar, So all who hide too well away Must speak and tell us where they are.
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Mending Wall
Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the lind And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of outdoor game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbours. Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: 'Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doens't love a wall, That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, 'Good fences make good neighbours.'
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Home Burial
He saw her from the bottom of the stairs Before she saw him. She was starting down, Looking back over her shoulder at some fear. She took a doubtful step and then undid it To raiese herself and look again. He spoke Advanding toward her: 'What is it you see From up there always for I want to know.' She turned and sank upon her skirts at that, And her face changed from terrified to dull. He said to gain time: 'What is it you see,' Mounting until she cowered undere him. 'I will find out now. You must tell me, dear.' She, in her place, refused him any help With the least stiffening of her neck and silence. She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see, Blind creature; and a while her didn't see. But at last he murmured, 'Oh,' and again, 'Oh.' 'What is it ¦¡ what?' she said.
'Just that I see.'
'You don't,' she challenged. 'Tell me what it is.'
'The wonder is I didn't see at once. I never noticed it from here before. I must be wonted to it ¦¡ that's the reason. The little graveyard where my people are! So small the window frames the whole of it. Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it? There are three stones of slate and one of marble, Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight On the sidehill. We haven't to mind those. But I understand: it is not the stones, But the child's mound'
'Don't, don't, don't, don't,' she cried.
She withdrew shrinking from beneath his arm That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs; And turned on him with such a daunting look, He said twice over before he knew himself: 'Can't a man speak of his own child he's los?'
'Not you! Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need it! I must get out of here. I must get air. I don't know rightly whether any man can.'
'Amy! Don't go to someone else this time. Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs.' He sat and fixed his chin between his fists. 'There's something I should like to ask you, dear.'
'You don't know how to ask it.'
'Help me, then.'
Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.
'My words are nearly always an offence. I don't know how to speak of anything So as to please you. But I might be taught I should suppose. I can't say I see how. A man must partly give up being a man With women-folk. We could have some arrangement By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off Anything special you're a-mind to name. Though I don't like such things' twixt those that love. Two that don't love can't live together without them. But two that do can't live together with them.' She moved the latch a little. 'Don't, don't go. Don't carry it to someone else this time. Tell me about it if it's something human. Let me into your grief. I'm not so much Unlike other folks as your standing there Apart would make me out. Give me my chance. I do think, though, you overdo it a little. What, was it brought you up to think it the thing To take your mother ¦¡ loss of a first child So inconsolably ¦¡ in the face of love. You'd think his memory might be satisfied.'
'There you go sneering now!'
'I'm not, I'm not! You make me angry. I'll come down to you. God, what a woman! And it's come to this, A man can't speak of his own child that's dead.' 'You can't because you don't know how to speak. If you had any feelings, you that dug With your own hand-how could you?-his little grave I saw you from that very window there, Making the gravel leap and leap in air, Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly And roll back down the mound beside the hole. I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you. And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs To look again, and still your spade kept lifting. Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice Out in the kitchen, and I don't know why, But I went near to see with my own eyes. You could sit there with the stains on your shoes Of the fresh earth from your own baby's grave And talk about your everyday concerns. You had stood the spade up against the wall Outside there in the entry, for I saw it.'
'I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed. I'm cursed. God, if I don't believer I'm cursed.'
'I can repeat the very words you were saying "Three foggy mornings and one rainy day Will rot the best birch fence a man can build." Think of it, talk like that at such a time! What had how long it takes a birch to rot To do with what was in the darkened parlour. You couldn't care! The nearest friends can go With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all. No, from the time when one is sick to death, One is alone, and he dies more alone. Friends make pretence of following to the grave, But before one is in it, their minds are turned And making the best of their way back to lie And living people, and things they understand. But the world's evil. I won't have grief so If I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't!'
'There, you have said it all and you feel better. You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door. The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up. Amy! There's someone coming down the road!
'You ¦¡ oh, you think the talk is all. I must go Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you ¦¡'
'If ¦¡ you ¦¡ do!' She was opening the door wider. 'Where do you mean to go? First tell me that. I'll follow and bring you back by force. I will! ¦¡'
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Birches
When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straight darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust ¦¡ Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows ¦¡ Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One boy one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig's having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate wilfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of branches.
ÀÚÀÛ³ª¹«
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The Hill Wife Loneliness ¦¡ Her Word
One ought not to have to care So much as you and I Care when the birds come round the house To seem to say goodbye;
Or case so much when they come back With whatever it is they sing; The truth being we are as much Too glad for the one thing
As we are too sad for the other here- With birds that fill their breasts But with each other and themselves And their built or driven nests.
»ê°ñ ¾Æ³«³× °íµ¶ ¦¡ ±×³àÀÇ ¸»
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¶Ç »õµéÀÌ ¹«¾ðÁö ³ë·¡ÇÏ¸ç µ¹¾Æ¿Ã ¶§µµ °ÆÁ¤À̰ŵç¿ä. µûÁö°í º¸¸é ¿ì¸®´Â ¾î¶² ÀÏÀº ³Ê¹« ±â»µÇÏ´Â ¹Ý¸é
¾î¶² ÀÏÀº Áö³ªÄ¡°Ô ½½ÆÛÇϰŵç¿ä ¦¡ »õµéÀº ¼·Î ÀúÈñµé³¢¸® ±×µéÀÌ Áö¾ú°Å³ª ÆÄ ³õÀº Áý¿¡¼ ¸¸Á·ÇÏ°Ô »ì »ÓÀ̰Ǹ¸.
The Telephone
'When I was just as far as I could walk From here today, There was an hour All still When leaning with my head against a flower I heard you talk. Don't say I didn't for I heard you say ¦¡ You spoke from that flower on the window sill ¦¡ Do you remember what it was you said?'
'First tell me what it was you thought you heard.'
'Having found the flower and driven a bee away, I leaned my head, And holding by the stalk, I listened and I thought I caught the word ¦¡ What was it? Did you call me by my name? Or did you say ¦¡ Someone said "Come" ¦¡ I heard it as I bowed.'
'I may have thought as much, but not aloud.'
'Well, so I came.'
ÀüÈ
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Dust Of Snow
The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.
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±î¸¶±Í ÇÑ ¸¶¸® µ¶¹Ì³ª¸® °¡Áö¸¦ Èçµé¾î ³» À§¿¡ ´«°¡·ç ¶³¾îÁö´Ï
±âºÐ ÇÑ°á ´Þ¶óÁö°í ÈÄȸ½º·± ÇÏ·ç Á¶±ÝÀº ±¸ÇØ ³»³×.
Fire And Ice
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favour fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice:
ºÒ°ú ¾óÀ½
¾î¶² »ç¶÷Àº ÀÌ ¼¼»óÀÌ ºÒ·Î ³¡³¯ °Å¶ó°í ¸»Çϰí, ¶Ç ¾î¶² »ç¶÷Àº ¾óÀ½À¸·Î ³¡³´Ù°í ¸»ÇÑ´Ù. ³»°¡ ¸À º» ¿å¸Á¿¡ ºñÃ纸¸é ³ª´Â ºÒ·Î ³¡³´Ù´Â »ç¶÷µé ÆíÀ» µé°í ½Í´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ¼¼»óÀÌ µÎ ¹ø ¸ê¸ÁÇÑ´Ù¸é ÆÄ±«ÇÏ´Â µ¥´Â ¾óÀ½µµ ´ë´ÜÇÑ ÈûÀ» °®°í ÀÖ´Ù°í ¸»ÇÒ ¸¸Å ³ª´Â Áõ¿À¿¡ ´ëÇØ¼µµ ÃæºÐÈ÷ ¾Ë°í ÀÖ´Ù°í »ý°¢ÇÑ´Ù ±×¸®°í ±×·¸°Ô ¸»ÇÏ´Â °É·Î ÃæºÐÇÏ´Ù
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes gown to day. Nothing gold can stay.
¾î¶² Âù¶õÇÑ °Íµµ ¿À·¡°¡Áö ¸øÇϸ®
ÀÚ¿¬ÀÇ ¿¬ÃÊ·ÏÀº Âù¶õÇÏÁö¸¸, ÁöÅÊÇϱâ Á¦ÀÏ Èûµç »ö. ±× ¶±ÀÙÀº ²ÉÀÌÁö¸¸, ÇÑ ½Ã°£À̳ª °¥±î. Á¶¸¸°£ ÀÙÀÌ ÀÙ À§¿¡ ³»·Á¾É´Â´Ù. ±×·¸°Ô ¿¡µ§Àº ½½ÇÄ¿¡ ºüÁö°í, »õº®Àº Çѳ·ÀÌ µÈ´Ù. ¾î¶² Âù¶õÇÑ °Íµµ ¿À·¡°¡Áö ¸øÇϸ®.
Two Look At Two
Love and forgetting might have carried them A little further up the mountainside With night so near, but not much further up. They must have halted soon in any case With thoughts of the path back, how rough it was With rock and washout, and unsafe in darkness; When they were halted by a tumbled wall With barbed-wire binding. They stood facing this, Spending what onward impulse they still had In one last look the way they must not go, On up the failing path, where, if a stone Or earthslide moved at night, it moved itself; No footstep moved it. 'This it all,' they sighed, 'Good-night to woods.' But not so; there was more. A doe from round a spruce stood looking at them Across the wall, as near the wall as they. She saw them in their field, they her in hers. The difficulty of seeing what stood still, Like some up ¦¡ ended boulder spilt in two, Was in her clouded eyes: they saw no fear there. She seemed to think that two thus they were safe. Then, as if they were something that, thought strange, She could not trouble her mind with too long, She sighed and passed unscared along the wall. 'This, then, is all. What more is there to ask?' But no, not yet. A snort to bid them wait. A buck from round the spruce stood looking. Across the wall as near the wall as they. This was an antlered buck of lusty nostril, Not the same doe come back into her place. He viewed them quizzically with jerks of head, As if to ask, 'Why don't you make some motion? Or give some sign of life? Because you can't. I doubt if you're as living as you look.' Thus till he had them almost feeling dared To stretch a proffering hand ¦¡ and a spell ¦¡ breaking. Then he too passed unscared along the wall. Two had seen two, whichever side you spoke from 'This must be all.' It was all Still they stood A great wave from it going over them, As if earth in one unlooked ¦¡ for favour Had made them certain earth returned their love.
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