PEOPLE'S CHOICE
SEE ALL TAGS & MOODS
I lift the Lord on high,
Under the murmuring hemlock boughs, and see
The small birds of the forest lingering by
Living, I had no might
To make you hear,
Now, in the inmost night,
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
A moment the wild swallows like a flight
Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high,
Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky.
From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
What if the sun comes out
And the new furrows do not look smeared?
This is April, and the sumach candles
A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,
And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim.
The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould,
How great unto the living seem the dead!
How sacred, solemn; how heroic grown;
How vast and vague, as they obscurely tread
A startled stag, the blue-grey Night,
Leaps down beyond black pines.
Behind — a length of yellow light —
The sun goes down, and over all
These barren reaches by the tide
Such unelusive glories fall,
Lord of my heart’s elation,
Spirit of things unseen,
Be thou my aspiration
For weeks and weeks the autumn world stood still,
Clothed in the shadow of a smoky haze;
The fields were dead, the wind had lost its will,
