Poem Robert Frost

A Record Stride

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In a Vermont bedroom closet

With a door of two broad boards

And for back wall a crumbling old chimney

(And that’s what their toes are towards),

I have a pair of shoes standing,

Old rivals of sagging leather,

Who once kept surpassing each other,

But now live even together.

They listen for me in the bedroom

To ask me a thing or two

About who is too old to go walking,

With too much stress on the who.

I wet one last year at Montauk

For a hat I had to save.

The other I wet at the Cliff House

In an extra-vagant wave.

Two entirely different grandchildren

Got me into my double adventure.

But when they grow up and can read this

I hope they won’t take it for censure.

I touch my tongue to the shoes now

And unless my sense is at fault,

On one I can taste Atlantic,

On the other Pacific, salt.

One foot in each great ocean

Is a record stride or stretch.

The authentic shoes it was made in

I should sell for what they would fetch.

But instead I proudly devote them

To my museum and muse;

So the thick-skins needn’t act thin-skinned

About being past-active shoes.

And I ask all to try to forgive me

For being as over-elated

As if I had measured the country

And got the United States stated.

Lost in Heaven
At Woodward's Gardens


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