And that's a tune we all dance to.

Little poet people s.n.a.t.c.hing ivy, Trying to prevent one another from s.n.a.t.c.hing ivy.

If you get a leaf, there's another for me; Look at the bush.

But I want your leaf, Brother, and you mine, Therefore, of course, we push.

"Here we go round the laurel-tree."

Do we want laurels for ourselves most, Or most that no one else shall have any?

We cannot stop to discuss the question.

We cannot stop to plait them into crowns Or notice whether they become us.

We scarcely see the laurel-tree, The crowd about us is all we see, And there's no room in it for you and me.

Therefore, Sisters, it's my belief We've none of us very much chance at a leaf.

"Here we go round the barberry-bush."

It's a bitter, blood-red fruit at best, Which puckers the mouth and burns the heart.

To tell the truth, only one or two Want the berries enough to strive For more than he has, more than she.

An acid berry for you and me.

Abundance of berries for all who will eat, But an aching meat.

That's poetry.

And who wants to swallow a mouthful of sorrow?

The world is old and our century Must be well along, and we've no time to waste.

Make haste, Brothers and Sisters, push With might and main round the ivy-bush, Struggle and pull at the laurel-tree, And leave the barberries be For poor lost lunatics like me, Who set them so high They overtop the sun in the sky.

Does it matter at all that we don't know why?

ROBERT FROST

FIRE AND ICE

Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To know that for destruction ice Is also great, And would suffice.

THE GRINDSTONE

Having a wheel and four legs of its own Has never availed the c.u.mbersome grindstone To get it anywhere that I can see.

These hands have helped it go and even race; Not all the motion, though, they ever lent, Not all the miles it may have thought it went, Have got it one step from the starting place.

It stands beside the same old apple tree.

The shadow of the apple tree is thin Upon it now; its feet are fast in snow.

All other farm machinery's gone in, And some of it on no more legs and wheel Than the grindstone can boast to stand or go.

(I'm thinking chiefly of the wheelbarrow.) For months it hasn't known the taste of steel, Washed down with rusty water in a tin.

But standing outdoors, hungry, in the cold, Except in towns, at night, is not a sin.

And, anyway, its standing in the yard Under a ruinous live apple tree Has nothing any more to do with me, Except that I remember how of old, One summer day, all day I drove it hard, And some one mounted on it rode it hard, And he and I between us ground a blade.

I gave it the preliminary spin, And poured on water (tears it might have been); And when it almost gayly jumped and flowed, A Father-Time-like man got on and rode, Armed with a scythe and spectacles that glowed.

He turned on will-power to increase the load And slow me down--and I abruptly slowed, Like coming to a sudden railroad station.

I changed from hand to hand in desperation.

I wondered what machine of ages gone This represented an improvement on.

For all I knew it may have sharpened spears And arrowheads itself. Much use for years Had gradually worn it an oblate Spheroid that kicked and struggled in its gait, Appearing to return me hate for hate.

(But I forgive it now as easily As any other boyhood enemy Whose pride has failed to get him anywhere.) I wondered who it was the man thought ground-- The one who held the wheel back or the one Who gave his life to keep it going round?

I wondered if he really thought it fair For him to have the say when we were done.

Such were the bitter thoughts to which I turned.

Not for myself was I so much concerned.

Oh, no!--although, of course, I could have found A better way to pa.s.s the afternoon Than grinding discord out of a grindstone, And beating insects at their gritty tune.

Nor was I for the man so much concerned.

Once when the grindstone almost jumped its bearing It looked as if he might be badly thrown And wounded on his blade. So far from caring, I laughed inside, and only cranked the faster, (It ran as if it wasn't greased but glued); I welcomed any moderate disaster That might be calculated to postpone What evidently nothing could conclude.

The thing that made me more and more afraid Was that we'd ground it sharp and hadn't known, And now were only wasting precious blade.

And when he raised it dripping once and tried The creepy edge of it with wary touch, And viewed it over his gla.s.ses funny-eyed, Only disinterestedly to decide It needed a turn more, I could have cried Wasn't there danger of a turn too much?

Mightn't we make it worse instead of better?

I was for leaving something to the whetter.

What if it wasn't all it should be? I'd Be satisfied if he'd be satisfied.

THE WITCH OF COoS

_Circa 1922_

I staid the night for shelter at a farm Behind the mountain, with a mother and son, Two old-believers. They did all the talking.

_The Mother_ Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits She _could_ call up to pa.s.s a winter evening, But _won't_, should be burned at the stake or something.

Summoning spirits isn't "b.u.t.ton, b.u.t.ton, Who's got the b.u.t.ton?" I'd have you understand.

_The Son_ Mother can make a common table rear And kick with two legs like an army mule.

_The Mother_ And when I've done it, what good have I done?

Rather than tip a table for you, let me Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.

He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him How that could be--I thought the dead were souls, He broke my trance. Don't that make you suspicious That there's something the dead are keeping back?

Yes, there's something the dead are keeping back.

_The Son_ You wouldn't want to tell him what we have Up attic, mother?

_The Mother_ Bones--a skeleton.

_The Son_ But the headboard of mother's bed is pushed Against the attic door: the door is nailed.

It's harmless. Mother hears it in the night Halting perplexed behind the barrier Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get Is back into the cellar where it came from.