Poem

There were three in the meadow by the brook,  Gathering up windrows, piling haycocks up, With an eye always lifted toward the west, Where an irregular, sun-bordered cloud Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground, Marched himself of the field and home. one stayed. The town-bred farmer failed to understand. What was there wrong?         Something you said just now. What did I say?         About our taking pains. To cock the hay?-because it's going to shower? I said that nearly half an hour ago. I said it to myself as much as you. You didn;t know. But James is one big fool. He thought you meant to find fault with his work. That's what the average farmer would have meant. James had to take his time to chew it over Before he acted; he's just got round to act. He is fool if that's the way he takes me. ROBERT FROST Poem: The Aim Was Song...

Before man came to blow it right      The wind once blew itself untaught, And did its loudest day and night      In any rough place where it caught. Man came to tell it what was wrong:      It hadn’t found the place to blow; It blew too hard—the aim was song.      And listen—how it ought to go! He took a little in his mouth,      And held it long enough for north To be converted into south,      And then by measure blew it forth. By measure. It was word and note,      The wind the wind had meant to be— A little through the lips and throat.      The aim was song—the wind could see. By: ROBERT FROST ROBERT FROST POEM: The CodeHeroics

I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is   Ozymandias , King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.” BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

When April bends above me And finds me fast asleep, Dust need not keep the secret A live heart died to keep. When April tells the thrushes, The meadow-larks will know, And pipe the three words lightly To all the winds that blow. Above his roof the swallows, In notes like far-blown rain, Will tell the little sparrow Beside his window-pane. O sparrow, little sparrow, When I am fast asleep, Then tell my love the secret That I have died to keep.                                       by Sara Teasdale