4 Fix double spacing; remove image embedding but keep links for reference.
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The little old house was out with a little new shed

In
In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped,

A
A roadside stand that too pathetically pled,

It
It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread,

But
But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports

The
The flower of cities from sinking and withering faint.

The
The polished traffic passed with a mind ahead,

Or
Or if ever aside a moment, then out of sorts

At
At having the landscape marred with the artless paint

Of
Of signs that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong

Offered
Offered for sale wild berries in wooden quarts,

Or
Or crook-necked golden squash with silver warts,

Or
Or beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene,

You
You have the money, but if you want to be mean,

Why
Why keep your money (this crossly) and go along.  

The hurt to the scenery wouldn’t be my complaint

So
So much as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid:

Here
Here far from the city we make our roadside stand

And
And ask for some city money to feel in hand

To
To try if it will not make our being expand,

And
And give us the life of the moving-pictures’ promise

That
That the party in power is said to be keeping from us.  

It is in the news that all these pitiful kin

Are
Are to be bought out and mercifully gathered in

To
To live in villages, next to the theatre and the store,

Where
Where they won’t have to think for themselves anymore,

While
While greedy good-doers, beneficent beasts of prey,

Swarm
Swarm over their lives enforcing benefits

That
That are calculated to soothe them out of their wits,

And
And by teaching them how to sleep they sleep all day,

Destroy
Destroy their sleeping at night the ancient way.  

Sometimes I feel myself I can hardly bear

The
The thought of so much childish longing in vain,

The
The sadness that lurks near the open window there,

That
That waits all day in almost open prayer

For
For the squeal of brakes, the sound of a stopping car,

Of
Of all the thousand selfish cars that pass,

Just
Just one to inquire what a farmer’s prices are.

And
And one did stop, but only to plow up grass

In
In using the yard to back and turn around;

And
And another to ask the way to where it was bound;  

And another to ask could they sell it a gallon of gas

They
They couldn’t (this crossly); they had none, didn’t it see? 

No, in country money, the country scale of gain,

The
The requisite lift of spirit has never been found,

Or
Or so the voice of the country seems to complain,

I
I can’t help owning the great relief it would be

To
To put these people at one stroke out of their pain.

And
And then next day as I come back into the sane,

I
I wonder how I should like you to come to me

And
And offer to put me gently out of my pain. 

Original sources: [enter image description herethree

 ] [enter image description herescanned

 ] [enter image description hereimages].

The little old house was out with a little new shed

In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped,

A roadside stand that too pathetically pled,

It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread,

But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports

The flower of cities from sinking and withering faint.

The polished traffic passed with a mind ahead,

Or if ever aside a moment, then out of sorts

At having the landscape marred with the artless paint

Of signs that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong

Offered for sale wild berries in wooden quarts,

Or crook-necked golden squash with silver warts,

Or beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene,

You have the money, but if you want to be mean,

Why keep your money (this crossly) and go along.

The hurt to the scenery wouldn’t be my complaint

So much as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid:

Here far from the city we make our roadside stand

And ask for some city money to feel in hand

To try if it will not make our being expand,

And give us the life of the moving-pictures’ promise

That the party in power is said to be keeping from us.

It is in the news that all these pitiful kin

Are to be bought out and mercifully gathered in

To live in villages, next to the theatre and the store,

Where they won’t have to think for themselves anymore,

While greedy good-doers, beneficent beasts of prey,

Swarm over their lives enforcing benefits

That are calculated to soothe them out of their wits,

And by teaching them how to sleep they sleep all day,

Destroy their sleeping at night the ancient way.

Sometimes I feel myself I can hardly bear

The thought of so much childish longing in vain,

The sadness that lurks near the open window there,

That waits all day in almost open prayer

For the squeal of brakes, the sound of a stopping car,

Of all the thousand selfish cars that pass,

Just one to inquire what a farmer’s prices are.

And one did stop, but only to plow up grass

In using the yard to back and turn around;

And another to ask the way to where it was bound;

And another to ask could they sell it a gallon of gas

They couldn’t (this crossly); they had none, didn’t it see?

No, in country money, the country scale of gain,

The requisite lift of spirit has never been found,

Or so the voice of the country seems to complain,

I can’t help owning the great relief it would be

To put these people at one stroke out of their pain.

And then next day as I come back into the sane,

I wonder how I should like you to come to me

And offer to put me gently out of my pain.

enter image description here

 enter image description here

 enter image description here

The little old house was out with a little new shed
In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped,
A roadside stand that too pathetically pled,
It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread,
But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports
The flower of cities from sinking and withering faint.
The polished traffic passed with a mind ahead,
Or if ever aside a moment, then out of sorts
At having the landscape marred with the artless paint
Of signs that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong
Offered for sale wild berries in wooden quarts,
Or crook-necked golden squash with silver warts,
Or beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene,
You have the money, but if you want to be mean,
Why keep your money (this crossly) and go along.  

The hurt to the scenery wouldn’t be my complaint
So much as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid:
Here far from the city we make our roadside stand
And ask for some city money to feel in hand
To try if it will not make our being expand,
And give us the life of the moving-pictures’ promise
That the party in power is said to be keeping from us.  

It is in the news that all these pitiful kin
Are to be bought out and mercifully gathered in
To live in villages, next to the theatre and the store,
Where they won’t have to think for themselves anymore,
While greedy good-doers, beneficent beasts of prey,
Swarm over their lives enforcing benefits
That are calculated to soothe them out of their wits,
And by teaching them how to sleep they sleep all day,
Destroy their sleeping at night the ancient way.  

Sometimes I feel myself I can hardly bear
The thought of so much childish longing in vain,
The sadness that lurks near the open window there,
That waits all day in almost open prayer
For the squeal of brakes, the sound of a stopping car,
Of all the thousand selfish cars that pass,
Just one to inquire what a farmer’s prices are.
And one did stop, but only to plow up grass
In using the yard to back and turn around;
And another to ask the way to where it was bound;  

And another to ask could they sell it a gallon of gas
They couldn’t (this crossly); they had none, didn’t it see? 

No, in country money, the country scale of gain,
The requisite lift of spirit has never been found,
Or so the voice of the country seems to complain,
I can’t help owning the great relief it would be
To put these people at one stroke out of their pain.
And then next day as I come back into the sane,
I wonder how I should like you to come to me
And offer to put me gently out of my pain. 

Original sources: [three] [scanned] [images].

3 Added text from the images added
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The little old house was out with a little new shed

In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped,

A roadside stand that too pathetically pled,

It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread,

But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports

The flower of cities from sinking and withering faint.

The polished traffic passed with a mind ahead,

Or if ever aside a moment, then out of sorts

At having the landscape marred with the artless paint

Of signs that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong

Offered for sale wild berries in wooden quarts,

Or crook-necked golden squash with silver warts,

Or beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene,

You have the money, but if you want to be mean,

Why keep your money (this crossly) and go along.

The hurt to the scenery wouldn’t be my complaint

So much as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid:

Here far from the city we make our roadside stand

And ask for some city money to feel in hand

To try if it will not make our being expand,

And give us the life of the moving-pictures’ promise

That the party in power is said to be keeping from us.

It is in the news that all these pitiful kin

Are to be bought out and mercifully gathered in

To live in villages, next to the theatre and the store,

Where they won’t have to think for themselves anymore,

While greedy good-doers, beneficent beasts of prey,

Swarm over their lives enforcing benefits

That are calculated to soothe them out of their wits,

And by teaching them how to sleep they sleep all day,

Destroy their sleeping at night the ancient way.

Sometimes I feel myself I can hardly bear

The thought of so much childish longing in vain,

The sadness that lurks near the open window there,

That waits all day in almost open prayer

For the squeal of brakes, the sound of a stopping car,

Of all the thousand selfish cars that pass,

Just one to inquire what a farmer’s prices are.

And one did stop, but only to plow up grass

In using the yard to back and turn around;

And another to ask the way to where it was bound;

And another to ask could they sell it a gallon of gas

They couldn’t (this crossly); they had none, didn’t it see?

No, in country money, the country scale of gain,

The requisite lift of spirit has never been found,

Or so the voice of the country seems to complain,

I can’t help owning the great relief it would be

To put these people at one stroke out of their pain.

And then next day as I come back into the sane,

I wonder how I should like you to come to me

And offer to put me gently out of my pain.

The little old house was out with a little new shed

In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped,

A roadside stand that too pathetically pled,

It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread,

But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports

The flower of cities from sinking and withering faint.

The polished traffic passed with a mind ahead,

Or if ever aside a moment, then out of sorts

At having the landscape marred with the artless paint

Of signs that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong

Offered for sale wild berries in wooden quarts,

Or crook-necked golden squash with silver warts,

Or beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene,

You have the money, but if you want to be mean,

Why keep your money (this crossly) and go along.

The hurt to the scenery wouldn’t be my complaint

So much as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid:

Here far from the city we make our roadside stand

And ask for some city money to feel in hand

To try if it will not make our being expand,

And give us the life of the moving-pictures’ promise

That the party in power is said to be keeping from us.

It is in the news that all these pitiful kin

Are to be bought out and mercifully gathered in

To live in villages, next to the theatre and the store,

Where they won’t have to think for themselves anymore,

While greedy good-doers, beneficent beasts of prey,

Swarm over their lives enforcing benefits

That are calculated to soothe them out of their wits,

And by teaching them how to sleep they sleep all day,

Destroy their sleeping at night the ancient way.

Sometimes I feel myself I can hardly bear

The thought of so much childish longing in vain,

The sadness that lurks near the open window there,

That waits all day in almost open prayer

For the squeal of brakes, the sound of a stopping car,

Of all the thousand selfish cars that pass,

Just one to inquire what a farmer’s prices are.

And one did stop, but only to plow up grass

In using the yard to back and turn around;

And another to ask the way to where it was bound;

And another to ask could they sell it a gallon of gas

They couldn’t (this crossly); they had none, didn’t it see?

No, in country money, the country scale of gain,

The requisite lift of spirit has never been found,

Or so the voice of the country seems to complain,

I can’t help owning the great relief it would be

To put these people at one stroke out of their pain.

And then next day as I come back into the sane,

I wonder how I should like you to come to me

And offer to put me gently out of my pain.

2 deleted 245 characters in body; edited tags; edited title
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Use of 'this crossly' in the 'A Roadside Stand' by Robert frostFrost?

I read the poem 'A Roadside Stand' by Robert Frost, and I have accumulated a few questions through the poem. So, I will be posting some questions from the same poem, if you can, then please answer my other questions as well. Thanks to all :)

What does author want to convey by saying/using 'this crossly' as two instances in the poem? What do they signify/show?

Thanks to anyone who takes his time to help me out :)

enter image description here

enter image description here

enter image description here

Use of 'this crossly' in the 'A Roadside Stand' by Robert frost?

I read the poem 'A Roadside Stand' by Robert Frost, and I have accumulated a few questions through the poem. So, I will be posting some questions from the same poem, if you can, then please answer my other questions as well. Thanks to all :)

What does author want to convey by saying/using 'this crossly' as two instances in the poem? What do they signify/show?

Thanks to anyone who takes his time to help me out :)

enter image description here

enter image description here

enter image description here

Use of 'this crossly' in the 'A Roadside Stand' by Robert Frost?

What does author want to convey by saying/using 'this crossly' as two instances in the poem? What do they signify/show?

Thanks to anyone who takes his time to help me out :)

enter image description here

enter image description here

enter image description here

1
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