You Don't Have To Be A House

Besides The Autumn Poets Sing, A Few Prosaic Days, A Little This Side Of The Snow, And That Side Of The Haze..., Grant Me, Oh Lord, A Sunny Mind- Thy Windy Will To Bear!

I Had Been Hungry All The Years- My Noon Had Come, To Dine- I, Trembling, Drew The Table Near And Touched The Curious Wine. 'twas This On Tables I Had Seen When Turning, Hungry, Lone, I Looked In Windows, For The Wealth I Could Not Hope To Own. I Did Not Know The Ample Bread, 'twas So Unlike The Crumb The Birds And I Had Often Shared In Nature's Diningroom. The Plenty Hurt Me, 'twas So New,-- Myself Felt Ill And Odd, As Berry Of A Mountain Bush Transplanted To The Road. Nor Was I Hungry; So I Found That Hunger Was A Way Of Persons Outside Windows, The Entering Takes Away.

To Shut Your Eyes Is To Travel.

But A Book Is Only The Heart's Portrait- Every Page A Pulse.

Presentiment Is That Long Shadow On The Lawn Indicative That Suns Go Down; The Notice To The Startled Grass That Darkness Is About To Pass.