Triad
These be three silent things: The falling snow . . . the hour Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one Just dead.
This poem is in the public domain.
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November Night
Listen …
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
And fall.
1915
The Sun-Dial
Every day, Every day, Tell the hours By their shadows, By their shadows.
1915
To the Dead in the Grave-Yard Under My Window
Written in a Moment of Exasperation How can you lie so still? All day I watch And never a blade of all the green sod moves To show where restlessly you toss and turn, And fling a desperate arm or draw up knees Stiffened and aching from their long disuse; I watch all night and not one ghost comes forth To take its freedom of the midnight hour. Oh, have you no rebellion in your bones? The very worms must scorn you where you lie, A pallid mouldering acquiescent folk, Meek habitants of unresented graves.
1913