Poem Robert Frost


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That far-off day the leaves In flight
Were letting ill the colder lIght
A season-ending wind there blew
That as It did the forest strew
I leaned on with a singing trust
And let It drive me deathward too.
With breaking step I stabbed the dust,
Yet did not much to shorten stride
I sang of death-but had I known
The many deaths one must have died
Before he came to meet his own
Dh, should a child be left unwarned
That any song in which he mourned
Would be as If he prophesied?
It were unworthy of the tongue
To let the half of life alone
And play the good without the III
And yet ‘twould seem that what is sung
In happy sadness by the young
Fate has no choice but to fulfill.
Flowers in the desert heat
Contrive to bloom
On melted mountain water led by flume
To wet their feet.
But something in it still is incomplete.
Before I thought the wilted to exalt
With water I would see them water-bowed.

I would pick up all ocean less its salt,
And though it were as much as cloud could bear
Would load it on to cloud,
And rolling it inland on roller air,
Would empty it unsparIng on the Hower
That past Its prIme lost petals in the flood,
(Who cares but for the future of the bud?)
And all the more the mightier the shower
Would run in under it to get my share.

‘Tis not enough on roots and in the mouth,
But give me water heavy on the head
In all the passion of a broken drouth.

And there is always more than should be said.

As strong is rain without as wine within,
As magical as sunlight on the skin.

I have been one no dwelling could contain
When there was rain;
But I must forth at dusk, my time of day,
To see to the unburdening of skIes
Rain was the tears adopted by my eyes
That have none left to stay.

Willful Homing
Carpe Diem


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