Robert Frost

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

Stars - Poem by Robert Frost

How countlessly they congregate
O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!--

As if with keenness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,--

And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.


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Read poems about / on: snow, hate, fate, love, star, tree, wind



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003



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