GATHERING LEAVES Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer Running away. But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face. I may load and unload Again and again Till I fill the whole shed, And what have I then? Next to nothing for weight, And since they grew duller From contact with earth, Next to nothing for color. Next to nothing for use. But a crop is a crop, And who's to say where The harvest shall stop?

I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago.

There are tones of voices that mean more than words.

Style is less the man than the way a man takes himself.

Nearly everybody is looking for something brave to do. I don't know why people shouldn't write poetry. That's brave.

Don't join too many gangs. Join few if any. Join the United States and join the family- But not much in between unless a college.

Unless I'm wrong I but obey The urge of a song: I'm-bound-away! And I may return If dissatisfied With what I learn From having died.