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In spring meadow a new song is—
Laid on an earthly table with birds
To feather nest, breaths remember,
Budding poems of leaves embrace,
All season is watered, warmly held
Dearly, bright and kept into drying
Bouquets.  Little creatures—flutter
In concords, humming with breeze
Caught fallows freed into sanctuary
Of bloom and spark, do clearly note
Abundance soon will break, arrived
To reasons that trail green into fires
Of earned, autumnal transcendence,
The flowers of peak, mature fruition.
In a spring meadow, celebrations all
Thrown— confetti let loose by Gods.
.
A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
                    A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
                    Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
                    At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

                    She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
                    Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
                    Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
                    I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.
1
He listened at the porch that day,
     To hear the wheel go on, and on;
And then it stopped, ran back away,
     While through the door he brought the sun:
     But now my spinning is all done.

                    2
He sat beside me, with an oath
     That love ne’er ended, once begun;
I smiled—believing for us both,
     What was the truth for only one:
     And now my spinning is all done.

                    3
My mother cursed me that I heard
     A young man’s wooing as I spun:
Thanks, cruel mother, for that word—
     For I have, since, a harder known!
     And now my spinning is all done.

                    4
I thought—O God!—my first-born’s cry
     Both voices to mine ear would drown:
I listened in mine agony—
     It was the silence made me groan!
     And now my spinning is all done.

                    5
Bury me ‘twixt my mother’s grave,
     (Who cursed me on her death-bed lone)
And my dead baby’s (God it save!)
     Who, not to bless me, would not moan.
     And now my spinning is all done.

                    6
A stone upon my heart and head,
     But no name written on the stone!
Sweet neighbours, whisper low instead,
     “This sinner was a loving one—
     And now her spinning is all done.”

                    7
And let the door ajar remain,
     In case he should pass by anon;
And leave the wheel out very plain,—
     That HE, when passing in the sun,
     May see the spinning is all done.
X

Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,
Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light
Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or ****:
And love is fire. And when I say at need
I love thee . . . mark! . . . I love thee—in thy sight
I stand transfigured, glorified aright,
With conscience of the new rays that proceed
Out of my face toward thine. There’s nothing low
In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures
Who love God, God accepts while loving so.
And what I feel, across the inferior features
Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show
How that great work of Love enhances Nature’s.
A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.
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.
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 Sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring,
To welcome the Spring.
The sky-lark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells cheerful sound.
While our sports shall be seen
On the Echoing Green.

Old John, with white hair
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say,
Such such were the joys
When we all girls & boys.
In our youth time were seen,
On the Echoing Green.

Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end:
Round the laps of their mothers.
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest.
Are ready for rest;
And sport no more seen,
On the darkening Green.
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by,
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.

When the meadows laugh with lively green
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene.
When Mary and Susan and Emily.
With their sweet round mouths sing Ha, Ha, He.

When the painted birds laugh in the shade
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread
Come live & be merry and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of Ha, Ha, He.
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