poetry for kid

there is no escape by the river
before the solemn bronze saint
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
the hypocritic days
in new york harbor
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
night is dark, and the winter winds
the old songs
little gate was reached at last
there was a time in former years