Robert Frost (March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963 / San Francisco)
Poems of Robert Frost
|63.||My November Guest||1/3/2003|
|64.||Neither Out Far Nor In Deep||1/3/2003|
|65.||Never Again Would Bird's Song Be the Same||1/3/2003|
|66.||Not to Keep||1/3/2003|
|67.||Nothing Gold Can Stay||1/3/2003|
|68.||Now Close The Windows||1/13/2003|
|70.||On Looking Up by Chance at the Constellations||1/3/2003|
|71.||Once by the Pacific||1/3/2003|
|72.||One Step Backward Taken||1/3/2003|
|74.||Pan With Us||1/13/2003|
|77.||Putting In The Seed||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.