Nothing Can Make Injustice Just But Mercy.

Something Sinister In The Tone Told Me My Secret Must Be Known: Word I Was In The House Alone Somehow Must Have Gotten Abroad, Word I Was In My Life Alone, Word I Had No One Left But God.

Not Yesterday I Learned To Know The Love Of Bare November Days Before The Coming Of The Snow.

Leaves And Bark, Leaves And Bark, To Lean Against And Hear In The Dark. Petals I May Have Once Pursued. Leaves Are All My Darker Mood.

The Land Was Ours Before We Were The Land's. She Was Our Land More Than A Hundred Years Before We Were Her People.

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting. . . . Read It A Hundred Times; It Will Forever Keep Its Freshness As A Metal Keeps Its Fragrance. It Can Never Lose Its Sense Of A Meaning That Once Unfolded By Surprise As It Went.