Out alone in the winter rain,
Intent on giving and taking pain.
But never was I far out of sight
Of a certain upper-window light.
The light was what it was all about:
I would not go in till the light went out;
It would not go out till I came in.
Well, we should wee which one would win,
We should see which one would be first to yield.
The world was black invisible field.
The rain by rights was snow for cold.
The wind was another layer of mold.
But the strangest thing: in the thick old thatch,
Where summer birds had been given hatch,
had fed in chorus, and lived to fledge,
Some still were living in hermitage.
And as I passed along the eaves,
So low I brushed the straw with my sleeves,
I flushed birds out of hole after hole,
Into the darkness. It grieved my soul,
It started a grief within a grief,
To think their case was beyond relief--
They could not go flying about in search
Of their nest again, nor find a perch.
They must brood where they fell in mulch and mire,
Trusting feathers and inward fire
Till daylight made it safe for a flyer.
My greater grief was by so much reduced
As I though of them without nest or roost.
That was how that grief started to melt.
They tell me the cottage where we dwelt,
Its wind-torn thatch goes now unmended;
Its life of hundred of years has ended
By letting the rain I knew outdoors
In on to the upper chamber floors.
Robert Lee Frost
written by Robert Lee Frost, published on Mon 07.14.2008 at 02:03
Even the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
written by Robert Lee Frost, published on Sat 06.14.2008 at 21:45
(To hear us talk)
The tree the tempest with a crash of wood
Throws down in front of us is not bar
written by Robert Lee Frost, published on Wed 05.14.2008 at 11:30
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
written by Robert Lee Frost, published on Thu 05.01.2008 at 06:26
'When I was just as far as I could walk
From here today,
There was an hour
When leaning with my head again a flower
written by Robert Lee Frost, published on Wed 04.30.2008 at 14:17
Here come the line-gang pioneering by,
They throw a forest down less cut than broken.