Poetry

A wanderer hears drums, warning him of war,
And that one cry of autumn from a wild-goose at the border,
And he knows that the dews tonight will be frost

Four hundred dollars beat for him Like a still heart within the house,
Midway the wall whereon a clock Made nightly music for the mouse.

Deep roll the breakers where we run
  Along the sands,
And up the blue deep rolls the sun
  From sunny lands.

Dusky and strong,
You lift high your branches,
Mighty magnolia;

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

Beloved, practice patience with this tongue,
Restricted to a single argument.
O, suffer that the voice has left unsung

Children’s voices in the orchard
Between the blossom- and the fruit-time:
Golden head, crimson head,

Last of the Romany race,
Haply a king and queen,
Meal it with sorry grace
On the highway border of green.