It would be a very false pose for me to pretend to know what I have done best. Any choice I made would mean little or nothing an hour after I had made it. Every new moon I could get up something entirely new. By the time my friend Whit Burnett had completed all the anthologies he could think of, I should have been in them with nearly everything I ever wrote. After all, what I have published represents a pretty strict essential selection as it is in my seven or eight books. But if I may be permitted to put forward a few that I have lately been looking fondly back over as deserving more attention than they get, let me seize the chance to name these.
IN COUNTRY THINGS
THE HOUSE had gone to bring again
To the midnight sky a sunset glow.
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.
The barn opposed across the way,
That would have joined the house in flame
Had it been the will of the wind, was left
To bear forsaken the place's name.
No more it opened with all one end
For teams that came by the stony road
To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs
And brush the mow with the summer load.
The birds that came to it through the air
At broken windows flew out and in,