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| Preface | |
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| I go among trees and sit still | |
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| Another Sunday morning comes | |
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| To sit and look at light-filled leaves | |
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| The bell calls in the town | |
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| How many have relinquished | |
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| What stood will stand, though all be fallen | |
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| What if, in the high, restful sanctuary | |
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| I go from the woods into the cleared field | |
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| Enclosing the field within bounds | |
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| Whatever is foreseen in joy | |
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| To long for what can be fulfilled in time | |
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| To long for what eternity fulfills | |
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| What hard travail God does in death | |
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| The eager dog lies strange and still | |
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| Great deathly powers have passed | |
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| The frog with lichened back and golden thigh | |
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| Six days of work are spent | |
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| The intellect so ravenous to know | |
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| Here where the world is being made | |
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| Dream ended, I went out, awake | |
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| Here where the dark-sourced stream brims up | |
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| The pasture, bleached and cold two weeks ago | |
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| Thrush song, stream song, holy love | |
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| A child unborn, the coming year | |
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| We have walked so many times, my boy | |
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| The clearing rests in song and shade | |
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| Our household for the time made right | |
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| Hail to the forest born again | |
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| The dark around us, come | |
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| In a crease of the hill | |
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| The year relents, and free | |
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| Now though the season warms | |
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| Who makes a clearing makes a work of art | |
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| Over the river in loud flood | |
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| A tired man leaves his labor, felt | |
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| The crop must drink; we move the pipe | |
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| The summer ends, and it is time | |
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| Estranged by distance, he relearns | |
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| Not again in this flesh will I see | |
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| A gracious Sabbath stood here while they stood | |
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| Awaked from the persistent dream | |
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| The fume and shock and uproar | |
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| How long does it take to make the woods | |
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| Life forgives its depredations | |
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| The winter wren is back, quick | |
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| Slowly, slowly, they return | |
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| Coming to the woods' edge | |
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| I climb up through the thicket | |
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| And now the lowland grove is down, the trees | |
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| May what I've written here | |
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| And now the remnant groves grow bright with praise | |
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| Remembering that it happened once | |
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| Now I have reached the age | |
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| It is the destruction of the world | |
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| Another year has returned us | |
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| The world of machines is running | |
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| Always in the distance | |
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| In early morning we awaken from | |
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| The old oak wears new leaves | |
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| Now Loyce Flood is dead | |
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| He thought to keep himself from Hell | |
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| One morning out of time | |
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| Here by the road where people are carried, with | |
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| The sky bright after summer-ending rain | |
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| One day I walked imagining | |
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| The two, man and boy, wait | |
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| To give mind to machines, they are calling it | |
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| After the slavery of the body, dumbfoundment | |
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| I walk in openings | |
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| The body in the invisible | |
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| Cut off in front of the line | |
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| The year begins with war | |
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| The ewes crowd to the mangers | |
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| Now with its thunder spring | |
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| The team rests in shade at the edge | |
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| The seed is in the ground | |
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| Seventeen more years, and they are here [The Locusts] | |
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| Where the great trees were felled | |
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| What do the tall trees say | |
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| Go by the narrow road [The Farm] | |
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| Loving you has taught me the infinite | |
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| The winter world of loss | |
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| Lift up the dead leaves | |
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| Again we come | |
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| I went away only | |
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| I too am not at home | |
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| My sore ran in the night | |
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| Those who give their thought | |
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| I have again come home | |
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| We have kept to the way we chose [Thirty-five Years] | |
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| No, no, there is no going back | |
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| When my father was an old man | |
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| Now, surely, I am getting old | |
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| Hate has no world | |
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| We went in darkness where [Remembering Evia] | |
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| I leave the warmth of the stove | |
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| Finally will it not be enough | |
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| I think of Gloucester, blind, led through the world | |
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| They sit together on the porch, the dark | |
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| Raking hay on a rough slope | |
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| A man is lying on a bed | |
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| I would not have been a poet | |
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| And now this leaf lies brightly on the ground | |
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| A man with some authentic worries | |
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| The best reward in going to the woods | |
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| Worn to brightness, this [A Brass Bowl] | |
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| We live by mercy if we live [Amish Economy] | |
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| Now you know the worst | |
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| He had a tall cedar he wanted to cut for posts [The Old Man Climbs a Tree] | |
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| Now you have slipped away | |
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| On summer evenings we sat in the yard | |
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| It is almost spring again | |
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| A long time ago, returning | |
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| Some Sunday afternoon, it may be | |
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| A bird the size | |
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| In spring we planted seed | |
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| Our Christmas tree is | |
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| Best of any song | |
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| Even while I dreamed I prayed that what I saw was only fear and no foretelling | |
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| I was wakened from my dream of the ruined world by the sound | |
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| "You see," my mother said, and laughed | |
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| The lovers know the loveliness | |
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| Now, as a man learning | |
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| There is a day | |