She Filled her Arms with Wood

She filled her arms with wood, and set Her chin

Forward, to hold the highest stick in place, / No less afraid than she had always been

Of spiders up her arms and on her face, / But too impatient for a careful search

Or a less heavy loading, from the heap

Selecting hastily small sticks of birch, / For their curled bark, that instantly will leap

Into a blaze, nor thinking to return

Some day, distracted, as of old, to find

Smooth, heavy, round, green logs with a wet, gray rind

Only, and knotty chunks that will not burn, / (That day when dust is on the wood-box floor, / And some old catalogue, and a brown, shriveled apple core).