Robert Frost

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

A Line-Storm Song


The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003

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  • Tiffany Roldan (1/13/2014 5:22:00 PM)

    It is rich in all flavor. Readers can savor it all together in one taste. Makes you shiver in sweetness, makes you tearful in his spice of adventure through the circumstances, and well, makes it a good food to the mind and heart. (Report) Reply

  • Crystie Cook (4/6/2010 1:38:00 PM)

    This is a very nice poem read literally or as an allegory, a love poem from the speaker who is telling his love that in spite of obstacles and the ups and downs in life-like what may happen in a storm-he still wants her to come and stand with him. I especially like the line 'rain-fresh goldenrod.' Robert Frost is always a nice combination of original wording with a touch of sentimentalism. (Report) Reply

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