The oldOld winds that blewWhen chaos was, what doThey tell the clattered trees that IShould weep?

I knowNot these my handsAnd yet I think there wasA woman like me once had handsLike these.

These be Three silent things: The Falling snow. . . the hour Before the dawn. . . the mouth of one Just dead.

My object to venture the suggestion that an important application of phonetics to metrical problems lies in the study of phonetic word-structure.

Sun and wind and beat of sea,

Listen ... With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break free from the trees And fall.

I make my shroud, but no one knows -- So shimmering fine it is and fair, With stitches set in even rows, I make my shroud, but no one knows. In door-way where the lilac blows, Humming a little wandering air, I make my shroud and no one knows, So shimmering fine it is and fair.

Listen . . .With faint dry sound,Like steps of passing ghosts,The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the treesAnd fall.

If itWere lighter touchThan petal of flower restingOn grass, oh still too heavy it were,Too heavy!

Pain ebbs, And like cool balm, An opiate weariness Settles on eye-lids, on relaxed Pale wrists.