The world's a ten-rod circle; hills are gone, Unless this floor of scrub and meadow-sweet Slanting to hidden nothing, on and on, May be a hill -- I guess it by my feet! The fir-tree dares not shake or even sigh, For fear of spilling beauty, bright as brief; The silvered cobweb scares away the fly, And quicksilver slides down the mullein leaf. Oh, fog-drops strung on birch like beads on hair! On each red barberry there hangs a tear . . . What wonder I forget the outer air, Shut in with a little beauty plain and near? Here's privacy with weeds, relief from sky, A hollow in gray space; a place, may be, Where one might lay disguises safely by, And strip to the heart in fog from off the sea! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ARCTURUS IN AUTUMN by SARA TEASDALE JANUARY by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE RAILWAY TRAIN by EMILY DICKINSON LAMENT FOR [THE DEATH OF] THOMAS DAVIS by SAMUEL FERGUSON IN A COPY OF OMAR KHAYYAM by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL RENASCENCE by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY |