Blog by Priyanshi | Digital Diary

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveller , long I stood And looked down one as far as I could 

  A SIumber did my Spirit Seal  I had no human fears. She seemed a thing that could not feel  The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force - She neither hears not sees,  Rolled round in earth 's diurnal course  With rocks and stones and trees.  

O The sanke trying  to escape the pursuing stick, With sudden Curvings of thin long body. How beautiful  and gracful are his shapes! He glides through the water away  From the stroke. O let him go Over the water  Into the reeds to hide  Without hurt. Small and green  he is harmless even to children. Along the sand  he lay until observed  and chased away, and now he vanished in the ripples among the green slim reeds.      

It takes much time to kill a tree, Not a simple jab of the knife  Will do it It has grown Slowly consuming the earth Rising out of it feeding Upon its crust absorbing Years of sunlight, air, water, And out of its leprous hide Sprouting leaves So hack and chop But this alone won't do it Not  so much pain will do it  The bleeding bark will help  And from close to the ground  Will rise curled green twigs Miniature boughs Which if unchecked will expand again  To former size  No, The root is to be pulled out - Out of the anchoring earth; It is to be roped , tired,  And pulled out- snapped out Or pulled out entirely, Out from the earth - cave , And the strength of the tree exposed  The source, white and wet The most sensitive,hidden For years inside the earth. Then the matter Of scorching and choking In sun and air, Browning,hardening Twisting, withering,​​​​​ And then it is done.

when the humid shadows hover  Over all the starry spheres  And the meiancholy darkness  Gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow Of a cottage- chamber bed  And lie listening to the patter Of the soft rain overhead! Every tinkle on the shingles.  Has an echo in the heart; And a thousand dreamy fancies  Into busy being start, And a thousand recollection  Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter  Of the rain upon the roof. Now in memory comes my mother, As she used in years agone,  To regard the darling dreamers  Ere she left them till the dawn:  O! I feel her fond look on me As I listen to this refrain  Which is  played upon the shingles  By the patter of the rain.