All in November's soaking mist We stand and prune the naked tree, While all our love and interest Seem quenched in the blue-nosed misery.
Ruth PitterBut the summits of poetry are mysteries; they are shiftingly veiled, and those who catch the glimpses see different aspects of the transcendental; but they have seen something, and they come down with the glory lingering on them.
Ruth PitterOne's homesickness for Heaven finds at least an inn there; and it's an inn on the right road.
Ruth PitterWe go, in winter's biting wind, On many a short-lived winter day, With aching back but willing mind To dig and double dig the clay.
Ruth Pitter