My dad, who passed away in March of 2020, gave me many gifts; one of the most precious was a love of poetry. He loved Keats and Shelley, Frost and Dickenson, Teasdale and St. Vincent Millay, Kipling and Eliot, Hopkins and Tennyson. …

At Grass The eye can hardly pick them out From the cold shade they shelter in, Till wind distresses tail and mane; Then one crops grass, and moves about - The other seeming to look on — And stands anonymous again. Yet fifteen years ago, perhaps Two dozen distances sufficed…

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near…

The First Snowfall The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl…

The Writer In her room at the prow of the house Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden, My daughter is writing a story. I pause in the stairwell, hearing From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys Like a chain hauled over a gunwale. Young as…

There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands away Nor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing poetry — This Traverse may the poorest take Without oppress of Toll — How frugal is the Chariot That bears the Human Soul — — Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)

This is an expanded version of what I said at my father’s funeral. He passed away on March 2, 2020 at the age of 89. May his memory be a blessing. My dad never wore his heart on his sleeve. I can’t help but do so today. …