Love Has Earth To Which She Clings.

Gathering Leaves Spades Take Up Leaves No Better Than Spoons, And Bags Full Of Leaves Are Light As Balloons. I Make A Great Noise Of Rustling All Day Like Rabbit And Deer Running Away. But The Mountains I Raise Elude My Embrace, Flowing Over My Arms And Into My Face. I May Load And Unload Again And Again Till I Fill The Whole Shed, And What Have I Then? Next To Nothing For Weight, And Since They Grew Duller From Contact With Earth, Next To Nothing For Color. Next To Nothing For Use. But A Crop Is A Crop, And Who's To Say Where The Harvest Shall Stop?

Poetry Should Be Common In Experience But Uncommon In Books.

An Idea Is A Feat Of Association, And The Height Of It Is A Good Metaphor.

In Spring More Mortal Singers Than Belong To Any One Place Cover Us With Song. Thrush, Bluebird, Blackbird, Sparrow, And Robin Throng.

The Vermont Mountains Stretch Extended Straight; New Hampshire Mountains Curl Up In A Coil.