How Pleasant to Know Robert Frost
How pleasant to know Robert Frost,
To perch on a birch tree or wall
Of frost-weathered stones, or get lost
On the way from gold spring to red fall,
To trek down a trail for an hour
Till it splits and I stand there a while
In awe of some fern or some flower,
While ahead of me, many a mile
Calls my name. I discern its faint voice.
As the sun droops, the evening star’s light
Sees me making a critical choice.
A woodpile appears on my right.
Who left it there? I’ll never know.
An enigma, as Frost was himself.
And that’s why I’ll never outgrow
His collection of poems on my shelf.
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