English 204

Grant T. Smith, Ph. D.

Poetry

 

                        The Pasture

 

I’m going out to clean the pasture spring;

I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away

(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):

I shan’t be gone long. –You come too.

 

I’m going out to fetch the little calf

That’s standing by the mother.  It’s so young

It totters when she licks it with her tongue.

I shan’t be gone long. –You come too.

 

                   --Robert Frost 1913

 

 

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

 

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.

 

          --Robert Frost 1923

 


The Lake Isle of Innisfree

 

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

 

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

 

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

 

            --William Butler Yeats

 

 

                        -668-

 

‘Nature’ is what we see—

The Hill—the Afternoon—

Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—

Nay—Nature is Heaven—

Nature is what we hear—

The Boblink—the Sea—

Thunder—the Cricket—

Nay—Nature is Harmony—

Nature is what we know—

Yet have no art to say—

So impotent Our Wisdom is

To her Simplicity.

 

            --Emily Dickinson

 

 

 

Traveling Through the Dark

 

Traveling through the dark I found a deer

dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.

It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:

that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

 

By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car

and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;

She had stiffened already, almost cold.

I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

 

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—

her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,

Alive still, never to be born.

Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

 

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;

under the hood purred the steady engine.

I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;

around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

 

I thought hard for us all—my only swerving--,

then pushed her over the edge into the river.

 

          --William Stafford