Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this: Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me,—let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
I always like summer best you can eat fresh corn from daddy's garden and okra and greens and cabbage and lots of barbecue and buttermilk and homemade ice-cream at the church picnic and listen to gospel music outside at the church homecoming and go to the mountains with your grandmother and go barefooted and be warm all the time not only when you go to bed and sleep
I saw this poem in today's The Writer's Almanac. I confess I rather like following the calf path and thinking about all the creatures who followed it before me and the calf who first walked that way.
One day through the primeval wood A calf walked home as good calves should; But made a trail all bent askew, A crooked trail as all calves do. Since then three hundred years have fled, And I infer the calf is dead. But still he left behind his trail, And thereby hangs my moral tale. The trail was taken up next day By a lone dog that passed that way; And then a wise bell–wether sheep Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep, And drew the flock behind him, too, As good bell–wethers always do. And from that day, o'er hill and glade, Through those old woods a path was made. And many men wound in and out, And dodged and turned and bent about, And uttered words of righteous wrath Because 'twas such a crooked path; But still they followed – do not laugh - The first migrations of that calf, And though this winding wood-way stalked Because he wobbled when he walked. This forest path became a lane That bent and turned and turned again; This crooked lane became a road, Where many a poor horse with his load Toiled on beneath the burning sun, And thus a century and a half They trod the footsteps of that calf. The years passed on in swiftness fleet, The road became a village street; And this, before men were aware, A city's crowded thoroughfare. And soon the central street was this Of a renowned metropolis; And men two centuries and a half Trod in the footsteps of that calf. Each day a hundred thousand rout Followed this zigzag calf about And o'er his crooked journey went The traffic of a continent. A hundred thousand men were led By one calf near three centuries dead. They followed still his crooked way. And lost one hundred years a day, For thus such reverence is lent To well-established precedent. A moral lesson this might teach Were I ordained and called to preach; For men are prone to go it blind Along the calf-paths of the mind, And work away from sun to sun To do what other men have done. They follow in the beaten track, And out and in, and forth and back, And still their devious course pursue, To keep the path that others do. They keep the path a sacred groove, Along which all their lives they move; But how the wise old wood-gods laugh, Who saw the first primeval calf. Ah, many things this tale might teach — But I am not ordained to preach.