No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.
It will be long ere the marshes resume,
I will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.
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Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,Half closes the garden path.And when I come to the garden ground,The whir of sober birdsUp from the tangle of withered weedsIs sadder than any wordsA tree beside the wall stands bare,But a leaf that lingered brown,Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,Comes softly rattling down.I end not far…
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Whose woods these are I think I know.
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Dust Of Snow – Poem by Robert Frost
The way a crowShook down on meThe dust of snowFrom a hemlock tree Has given my heartA change of moodAnd saved some partOf a day I had rued.