from "Birches"

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do.  Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain.  They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

--Robert Frost
 
 

from MacBeth

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death.  Out, out brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more.  It is a tale
told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

--Shakespeare
 
 

from "The Lady in Kicking Horse River"

Not my hands but green across you now.
Green tons hold you down, and ten bass curve
teasing in your hair.  Summer slime
will pile deep on your breast.  Four months of ice
will keep you firm.  I hope each spring
to find you tangled in those pads
pulled not quite lose by the spillway pour,
stars in dead reflection off your teeth.

--Richard Hugo
 

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