Robert Frost

(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963 / San Francisco)

Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter - Poem by Robert Frost

The west was getting out of gold,
The breath of air had died of cold,
When shoeing home across the white,
I thought I saw a bird alight.

In summer when I passed the place
I had to stop and lift my face;
A bird with an angelic gift
Was singing in it sweet and swift.

No bird was singing in it now.
A single leaf was on a bough,
And that was all there was to see
In going twice around the tree.

From my advantage on a hill
I judged that such a crystal chill
Was only adding frost to snow
As gilt to gold that wouldn't show.

A brush had left a crooked stroke
Of what was either cloud or smoke
From north to south across the blue;
A piercing little star was through.

Topic(s) of this poem: sunset


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Poem Edited: Wednesday, May 6, 2015


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