Poetry Archives

What though the moon should come
 With a blinding glow,
And the stars have a game
 On the wood’s edge,
A man would have to still
 Cut and weed and sow,
And lay a white line
 When he plants a hedge.

What though God
 With a great sound of rain
Came to talk of violets
 And things people do,
I would have to labor
 And dig with my brain
Still to get a truth
 Out of all words new.