Connie's Web Poetry

Connie's Web

Poetry

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Poet Seers

Spring is Here!!!	Smells by Kathryn Worth

	Through all the frozen winter My nose has grown most lonely For lovely, lovely, colored smells That come in springtime only.	The tall pink smell of peach trees, The low white smell of clover, And everywhere the great green smell Of grass the whole world over.
	The purple smell of lilacs, The yellow smell that blows Across the air of meadows Where bright forsythia grows.

I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth

APRIL SHOWERS
(musical version)

APRIL SHOWERS

It isn't raining rain to me,
It's raining daffodils;
In every dimpled drop I see
Wild flowers on the hill.
The clouds of grey engulf the day
And overwhelm the town...
It isn't raining rain to me,
It's raining roses down.

It isn't raining rain to me
But fields of clover bloom
Where any buccaneering bee
May find a bed and room.
A health unto the happy,
A fig for him who frets....
It isn't raining rain to me,
It's raining violets.

Robert Loveman

Spring Awakenings

The tulip tips peek tentatively,
Ah, I see a purple crocus bloom,
That hearty flower has rakishly
Shed its winter's gloom.

What nerve this pioneer has,
To assume such a frivolous cloak,
Smiling at us with shivering glee,
This, the perennial joke.

Alongside us with an amiable flair,
Cousin iris ruffles its frosty hair.
Dandelions pop up, one by one,
Sharing our space in the warming sun.

Our family colors proclaim for all to see
Spring's magic following the long winter spree.
Kenneth Cope

A Walk in Spring by K.C. Lart

What could be nicer than the spring, when little birds begin to sing?
When for my daily walk I go through fields that once were white with snow?
When in the green and open spaces lie baby lambs with sweet black faces?
What could be finer than to shout that all the buds are bursting out -
And oh, at last beneath the hill, to pick a yellow daffodil?

From Birds & Blooms magazine

Garden Whispers

When you walk into the garden, stop and listen to the flowers.
Then, if you are very quiet, they will talk to you for hours.

Early in the morning light, Snowdrops peek from the snow
To tell you winter's almost over, in a voice so sweet and low.

Bluebells merrily ring out news to herald in the spring
And call out to all the birds to have a song to sing.

Born from the rich brown earth, Spring flowers of every hue,
Pink, purple, red and yellow, will softly speak to you.

Just stop and pause a moment and drink in every sound,
For in the flowery garden, there are whispers all around.

Elizabeth Asner

Summer Night
Jean McKinney

A summer evening's lovely
With its shadows blue and deep
And its busy crickets strumming
Drowsy songs to make us sleep.

With its flitting fireflies glowing,
With its stars so big and bright,
And its gentle breezes sighing
Little secrets through the night

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

Wallace Stevens

Japanese Haiku Poetry

Kim's Haiku World Descriptions, Examples, Photos, Seasons

Yasuko's examples of Haiku

In this world of ours,
happiness or unhappiness
begins with people meeting people
I wish you many happy encounters

Because your heart is beautiful,
Everything you see is beautiful,too
---Mitsuo Aida

Something told the wild geese

Something told the wild geese
It was time to go.
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered - "Snow."
Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned - "Frost."
All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice,
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.
Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly -
Summer sun was on their wings,
winter in their cry.

-Rachel Field-

The Cow

The friendly cow all red and white,
        I love with all my heart:
She gives me cream with all her might,
      To eat with apple-tart.

She wanders lowing here and there,
        And yet she cannot stray,
All in the pleasant open air,
        The pleasant light of day;

And blown by all the winds that pass
        And wet with all the showers,
She walks among the meadow grass
        And eats the meadow flowers

A Child's Garden of Verses
by Robert Louis Stevenson

I never saw a purple cow
I never hope to see one
But I can tell you anyhow
I'd rather see than be one!

Gelett Burgess, 1896

The Book Hunter by Frank Dempster Sherman (1860-1016) A CUP of coffee, eggs, and rolls
Sustain him on his morning strolls:
Unconscious of the passers-by,
He trudges on with downcast eye;
He wears a queer old hat and coat,
Suggestive of a style remote;
His manner is preoccupied,--
A shambling gait, from side to side.
For him the sleek, bright-windowed shop
Is all in vain, -- he does not stop.
His thoughts are fixed on dusty shelves
Where musty volumes hide themselves,--
Rare prints of poetry and prose,
And quaintly lettered folios,--
Perchance a parchment manuscript,
In some forgotten corner slipped,
Or monk-illumined missal bound
In vellum with brass clasps around;
These are the pictured things that throng
His mind the while he walks along.

A dingy street, a cellar dim,
With book-lined walls, suffices him.
The dust is white upon his sleeves;
He turns the yellow, dog-eared leaves
With just the same religious look
That priests give to the Holy Book.
He does not heed the stifling air
If so he find a treasure there.
He knows rare books, like precious wines,
Are hidden where the sun ne’er shines;
For him delicious flavors dwell
In books as in old Muscatel;
He finds in features of the type
A clew to prove the grape was ripe.
And when he leaves this dismal place,
Behold, a smile lights up his face!
Upon his cheeks a genial glow,--
Within his hand Boccaccio,
A first edition worn with age,
“Firenze” on the title-page.

from http://www.poetry-archive.com/s/the_book_hunter.html

Robert Frost

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost ---- 1923

Whose woods these 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.

The Runaway

Author: Robert Frost - 1874-1963

Once, when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,
We stopped by a mountain pasture to say "Whose colt?"
A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,
The other curled at his breast.
He dipped his head and snorted to us.
And then he had to bolt.

We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,
And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and gray,
Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.

"I think the little fellow's afraid of the snow.
He isn't winter-broken.
It isn't play with the little fellow at all.
He's running away.
I doubt if even his mother could tell him,
'Sakes, it's only weather.'
He'd think she didn't know!
Where is his mother?
He can't be out alone."

And now he comes again with a clatter of stone
And mounts the wall again with a whited eyes
And all his tail that isn't hair up straight.
He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.

"Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,
When other creatures have gone to stall and bin,
Ought to be told to come and take him in."

i

After Apple Picking
by Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still.
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples; I am drowsing off.
I cannot shake the shimmer from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the water-trough,
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and reappear,
Stem end and blossom end
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
And I keep hearing from the cellar-bin
That rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking; I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall,
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised, or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

Below photos from Willough Vale Inn

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN"

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

by Robert Frost
in "The Mountain Interval"

A poem to whom I secretly admire
~~~

To ask you to be my Valentine I'd have to talk to you,
Something that in all this time I've managed not to do.

I'd have to get past "Hi!" somehow to show you that I care,
But the right time is never now, especially when you're there.

It's as if a wall of fear, transparent yet profound,
Came hurtling up as you come near, cutting off all sound.

I fear I won't know what to say and strike you as a fool,
Or you'll be glad to get away, polite not to be cruel.

Easier to dream than act, to hope than to find out,
So fearful of the force of fact I wait in fear-filled doubt.

But now the day of love has come, and I must cross its line,
And so I ask you through this poem to be my Valentine.

	Thanksgiving The year has turned its circle, The seasons come and go. The harvest all is gathered in And chilly north winds blow. Orchards have shared their treasures, The fields, their yellow grain, So open wide the doorway~ Thanksgiving comes again!
	Blessings: A Cornucopia of Blessings Red is for beautiful dancing leaves, Yellow, for harvest wheat bundled in sheaves. Orange is for glossy pumpkins and gourds, the fruits of the fields, thanks to the Lord. Purple is for all the love that surrounds us, with those so dear to our heart close around us. Green is for gratitude we are expressing ... Brown, for our cornucopia of blessings!

	A Thanksgiving Dinner By Maude M. Grant Take a turkey, stuff it fat, Some of this and some of that. Get some turnips, peel them well. Cook a big squash in its shell. Now potatoes, big and white, Mash till they are soft and light. Cranberries, so tart and sweet, With the turkey we must eat. Pickles-yes-and then, oh my! For a dessert a pumpkin pie, Golden brown and spicy sweet. What a fine Thanksgiving treat!
	Albquerque Turkey (sung to CLEMENTINE) Albuquerque is a turkey And he’s feathered and he’s fine And we wobbles and he gobbles And he’s absolutely mine. He’s the best pet that you can get Better than a dog or cat. He’s my Albuquerque turkey And I’m awfully proud of that. He once told me, very frankly, He preferred to be my pet, Not the main course at my dinner, And I told him not to fret. And my Albuquerque turkey Is so happy in his bed, ‘Cause for our Thanksgiving dinner we had egg foo yong instead.

"Sunshine is delicious,
rain is refreshing,
wind braces us up,
snow is exhilarating;
there is really no such thing as bad weather,
only different kinds of good weather."

Nature is painting for us, day after day,
pictures of infinite beauty if only we have the eyes to see them.

~ John Ruskin

Hugs




Hugs come in different sizes.
Hugs feel different, too.
There are sad hugs when you're crying
That's when nothing else will do.



There are happy hugs for laughing.
There are hugs for scary, too.
But the hugs that I like best of all...
Are hugs for I Love You!

The Calendar
Sara Coleridge

January brings the snow,
makes our feet and fingers glow.

February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.

March brings breezes loud and shrill,
stirs the dancing daffodil.

April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daises at our feet.

May brings flocks of pretty lambs,
Skipping by their fleecy damns.

June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children's hand with posies.

Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots and gillyflowers.

August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.

Warm September brings the fruit,
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.

Fresh October brings the pheasants,
Then to gather nuts is pleasant.

Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves are whirling fast.

Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

Walking

Dilys Bennett Laing

  I walked on a snow-bank that squeaked like leather,
  Or two wooden spoons that you rub together.
  
         I walked on green moss and brown earth, sprouting
         With little grass blades on their first spring outing.

                I walked on blossoms and cool, green cresses,
                And grass that rustled like silken dresses.
 
                        I walked on bracken, and dry leaves after,
                        That flamed with color and crackled with laughter.
  
                               I walked on the earth as the seasons came,
                               And under my feet it was never the same!

TREES

Trees are the kindest thing I know,
They do no harm, they simply grow.

And spread a shade for sleepy cows,
And gather birds among their boughs.

They give us fruit in leaves above,
And wood to make our houses of.

And leaves to burn on Halloween,
And in the Spring new buds of green.

They are the first when day's begun,
To touch the beams of morning sun.

They are the last to hold the light,
When evening changes into night.

And when a moon floats on the sky,
They hum a drowsy lullaby.

Of sleepy children long ago . . .
Trees are the kindest things I know.

By: Harry Behn

Little Things

A summer's breeze, a smiling child,
A daffodil that's growing wild,
A deep orange sunset in the West;
Those little things, I love the best.

A still dark night with fireflies,
The laughter in my mother's eyes,
A multicolored rainbow's end ...
Are little things that count, my friend.

A fuzzy warm puppy (licking my face),
Kisses with hugs and a loving embrace,
Rain pouring down on a roof made of tin,
Sitting under a shade (with a soft gentle wind);

Those little things make life worth living.
Being kind to a stranger, caring and giving,
Laughing and sharing your hopes and your dreams;
There is nothing more precious than those little things.

© Vickie Lambdin

SMILING

Smiling is infectious,
you catch it like the flu.
When someone smiled at me today,
I started smiling too.

I passed around the corner,
and someone saw my grin...
When he smiled I realized,
I'd passed it on to him.

I thought about that smile,
then I realized its worth,
A single smile, just like mine,
could travel round the earth.

So, if you feel a smile begin,
don't leave it undetected...
Let's start an epidemic quick
and get the world Smile Infected!

Hold fast your dreams

Within your heart
Keep a place apart
Where dreams may go
And sheltered so
May thrive and grow
Where doubt and
Fear are not.
Hold fast,
Hold fast your dreams

Daisies

(Frank Dempster Sherman)

At evening when I go to bed
I see the stars shine overhead.
They are the little daisies white
That dot the meadow of the night.

And often while I'm dreaming so,
Across the sky the moon will go.
It is a lady, sweet and fair,
Who comes to gather daisies there.

For, when at morning I arise,
There's not a star left in the skies,
She's picked them all
and dropped them down
Into the meadows of the town.

Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod

Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod, one night sailed off in a wooden shoe;
Sailed off on a river of crystal light into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going and what do you wish?" the old moon asked the three.
"We've come to fish for the herring fish that live in this beautiful sea.
Nets of silver and gold have we," said Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song as they rocked in the wooden shoe.
And the wind that sped them all night long ruffled the waves of dew.
Now the little stars are the herring fish that live in that beautiful sea;
"Cast your nets wherever you wish never afraid are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three - Winkin', and Blinkin', and Nod.

So all night long their nets they threw to the stars in the twinkling foam.
'Til down from the skies came the wooden shoe bringing the fisherman home.
'Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed as if it could not be.
Some folks say 'twas a dream they dreamed of sailing that misty sea.
But I shall name you the fisherman three - Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod.

Now Winkin' and Blinkin' are two little eyes and Nod is a little head.
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies is a wee one's trundle bed.
So close your eyes while mother sings of the wonderful sights that be.
And you shall see those beautiful things as you sail on the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three - Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod.

Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)
Trees
(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Raindrops and Rainbows

Raindrops and rainbows go hand in hand
For both can bring pleasure to our fair land
When life is thirsty, it is rain that it needs.
Beauty grows from the rainbow,
sprouting from the colored seeds.

The next time, it is raining.
Please don't dread the storm.
But look for the rainbow.
In those colors, peace will form.

© By Pauline Hamblin
from murphylinda.bravejournal.com

My Shadow
By: Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me.

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

The Barefoot Boy

BLESSINGS on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,-
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,- the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,-
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the round mole sinks his well
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the groundnut trails its vine,
Where the wood grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!-
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,-
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming birds and honeybees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still, as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread,-
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the doorstone, gray and rude!
O're me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold;
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frog's orchestra;
And to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on thebarefoot boy!

Cheerily, then my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toi,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou shouldst know thy joy
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

- John Greenleaf Whittier -
(1807-1892)

Sam Walter Foss - An American poet, journalist, and humorist

The House by the Side of the Road

Among the popular poems composed by Sam Walter Foss, (1858-1911) the American poet, is the gem entitled, "The House by the Side of the Road." One day when walking along a country road, Sam Walter Foss came to a seat where he rested and then noticed a sign directing him to a nearby spring, where he found a basket of fruit and a glass, so that thirsty travelers might refresh themselves. Upon making enquiries he found that the fruit in season was provided by an old man who lived nearby and who also kept the spring clean, the seat in repair, and the basket filled with the fruit in season. Touched by the kindness of the old man Sam Walter Foss wrote a poem which has gone round the world.
from www.lexicon.net/rpvize/monty/the_house_by_the_side_of_the_road.htm

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the peace of their self-content;
There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran;-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban;-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears-
Both parts of an infinite plan;-
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish- so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat
Or hurl the cynic's ban?-
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

The Poster-Painter's Masterpiece

"LET us paint a landscape in June," he cried;: "A Landscape in high June."
And the poster-painter swelled with pride: And trilled a merry tune.
And he painted five cows in Antwerp blue
(For he was a poster-painter true),
And the grass they browsed was a light écru: And a dark maroon.
And the foot of one cow was in the sky,: And her horns were pink and green;
Her amber tail it curled on high--: A bright and beauteous scene.
And a lavender river flowed at her feet
With gamboge lilies fragrant and sweet,
But some were the color of powdered peat,: Some light marine.
And another cow's tail was round the sun: (Her horns hung limply down);
And her tail was white as wool new-spun,: And the sun was a neutral brown.
In the drab background was a pale-blue lamb
Who stood by the side of her turquoise dam,
And the sky--a pink parallelogram--: On the lamb closed down.
And the rhomboid hills were of ochre hue: With trees of lilac white,
And rectilinear forests grew: In a limpid cochineal light.
An isosceles lake spread fair and pink,
And, gathered about its damask brink,
Triangular swans came down to drink: With glad delight.
Then a milkmaid came with cheeks of dun: And a smile of dark maroon,
One arm was on the setting sun,: One on the rising moon.
And she seemed to float from a Nile-green sky,
With an ebony arm and an ivory eye,
And her gown swelled from a point on high,: Like a pink balloon.
But all the things the painter drew: 'Twere hard to tell--
The cow, the sky, the swans of blue,: Lamb, maid, he painted well.
But which was the cow and which the maid,
And which were the swans or the trees of shade,
And which were the sky or the hills, I'm afraid,: No soul could tell.

from the Poets Corner

Created 8-27-4 Last Update 4-18-6

Summer Night Jean McKinney

Robert Frost Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening