My heart is what it was before, A house where people come and go; But it is winter with your love,
Hard seeds of hate I planted That should by now be grown,-- Rough stalks, and from thick stamens
OH, come again to Astolat! I will not ask you to be kind. And you may go when you will go,
Let them bury your big eyes In the secret earth securely, Your thin fingers, and your fair,
My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night ; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
Butterflies are white and blue In this field we wander through. Suffer me to take your hand.
Ho, Giant! This is I! I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky! La,--but it's lovely, up so high!
I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high--higher than most--
OH, here the air is sweet and still, And soft's the grass to lie on; And far away's the little hill
And what are you that, wanting you I should be kept awake As many nights as there are days
There was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once--she said
Still must the poet as of old, In barren attic bleak and cold, Starve, freeze, and fashion verses to