fall poetry

if the red slayer think he slays
daughter, thou art come to die
all quiet along the potomac
when i go back to earth
a pen of steel
let me move slowly through the street
see, from this counterfeit of him
my sorrow, when she's here with me
it tells of good old times
the child who threw away leaf after leaf
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
when the wind works against us in the dark
see the tentative