Robert Frost (March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963 / San Francisco)
Poems of Robert Frost
|83.||Spoils Of The Dead||3/29/2010|
|86.||Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening||1/3/2003|
|88.||The Aim Was Song||1/3/2003|
|92.||The Black Cottage||3/29/2010|
|95.||The Cow In Apple-Time||1/13/2003|
|96.||The Death of the Hired Man||1/3/2003|
|97.||The Demiurge's Laugh||1/3/2003|
|98.||The Exposed Nest||1/13/2003|
|100.||The Flower Boat||1/13/2003|
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.