In What Bold Relief Stand

In What Bold Relief Stand Out The Lives Of All Walkers Of The Snow! The Snow Is A Great Tell-tale, And Blabs As Effectually As It Obliterates. I Go Into The Woods, And Know All That Has Happened. I Cross The Fields, And If Only A Mouse Has Visited His Neighbor, The Fact Is Chronicled.

The Poor Old Earth Which Has Mothered Us And Nursed Us We Treat With Scant Respect. Our Awe And Veneration We Reserve For The Worlds We Know Not Of. Our Senses Sell Us Out. The Mud On Our Shoes Disenchants Us.

The Overall Quantity Of Nuclear Weapons In The World Continues To Decline Slowly.

In New York And New England The Sap Starts Up In The Sugar Maple The Very Day The Bluebird Arrives, And Sugar-making Begins Forthwith. The Bird Is Generally A Mere Disembodied Voice; A Rumor In The Air For Two Or Three Days Before It Takes Visible Shape Before You.

Mounting Toward The Upland Again, I Pause Reverently, As The Hush And Stillness Of Twilight Come Upon The Woods. It Is The Sweetest, Ripest Hour Of The Day. And As The Hermit's Evening Hymn Goes Up From The Deep Solitude Below Me, I Experience That Serene Exaltation Of Sentiment Of Which Music, Literature, And Religion Are But The Faint Types And Symbols.