Wind

  Wind, come softly.

Don't break the shutters of the windows.

Don't scatter the papers.

Don't throw down the books on the shelf.

There, look what you did-you threw them all down.

You tore the pages of the books.

You brought rain again.  

    You're very clever at poking fun at weaklings. Frail crumbling houses, crumbling doors, crumbling raft crumbling wood, crumbling bodies, crumbling lives, crumbling hearts-

The wind god winnows and crushes them all.

    He won't do what you tell him.

So, come, let's build strong homes,

Let's joint the doors firmly.

Practislce to firm the body.

Make the heart steadfast.

Do this, and the wind will be friends with us.

   The wind blows out weak fires.

He makes strong fires roar and flourish.

Is friendship is good.

We praise him every day.

   The road not taken

  Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood 

And looked down one as far as I could 

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

   Then took the others, just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted to wear;

Thought as for that, the passing there

Had worn them, really about the same.

   And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way lands on to way,

I doubted if I should every come back,

   I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence;

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

I took the one less travelled by,

And that has made all the difference.

    Rain on the roof

  When the humid shadows hover

Over all the starry spheres

And the melancholy darkness

Gently weeps in rainy tears,

What a bliss to press the pillow 

Of a cottage-chamber bed

And lie listening to the patter 

Of the soft rain overhead!

  Every tinkle on the shingles

Has an echo in the heart;

And a thousand dreamy fancies

Into busy being start.

And a thousand recollections

Weave their air-threads into woof,

As I listen to the patter

Of the rain upon the roof.

   Now in memory comes my mother,

As she used to years alone,

To regard the darling dreamers

Ere she left them till the dawn:

O! I feel her fond look on me

As I list to this refrain 

Which is played upon the shingles

By the patter of the rain.

     The lake isle of Innisfree

  I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin there, of clay and wattlesade:

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a give for the honeybee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

    And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow

Dripping form the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There mind night's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evenings full of the linnet's wings.

   I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on pavements gray,

I hear in the deep heart's core.

  A legend of the Northland

    Away, away in the Northland 

Where the hours of the day are few,

And the nights are so long in winter

That they cannot sleep them through;

   Where they harness the  Swift reindeer

To the sedges, when it snows,

And the children look like bear's Cubs

In their funny, furry clothes;

   They tell them a curious story

I don't believe 'tis true'

And yet you may learn a lesson 

If I tell the tale of you.