If, as they say, some dust thrown in my eyes
Will keep my talk from getting overwise,
I’m not the one for putting off the proof.
Let it be overwhelming, off a roof
And round a corner, blizzard snow for dust,
And blind me to a standstill if it must.
Similar Posts
The Sky Is The Lost Orpheum
The shelter of it carved, cavedAcross the river, the park and the little Ferris wheelclosed downThe great oaks emptying, russet, gussetedthe hovering slant light leaking from the outer edgeof cloud bedleads and shawls pulled forthThy synchrony of the lost elements recoveredthe shivering water surfaces, planar unmeldings, remeldings,riverine alchemies, unlocketed selvesnow the reemergence, the sun pouring…
To The Thawing Wind – Poem by Robert Frost
Come with rain. O loud Southwester!Bring the singer, bring the nester;Give the buried flower a dream;Make the settled snowbank steam;Find the brown beneath the white;But whate’er you do tonight,Bath my window, make it flow,Melt it as the ice will go;Melt the glass and leave the sticksLike a hermit’s crucifix;Burst into my narrow stall;Swing the picture…
The Line-Gang – Poem by Robert Frost
Here come the line-gang pioneering by,They throw a forest down less cut than broken.They plant dead trees for living, and the deadThey string together with a living thread.They string an instrument against the skyWherein words whether beaten out or spokenWill run as hushed as when they were a thoughtBut in no hush they string it:…
A dented spider like a snow drop white
Like a white piece of lifeless satin cloth –Saw ever curious eye so strange a sight? –Portent in little, assorted death and blightLike the ingredients of a witches’ broth? –The beady spider, the flower like a froth,And the moth carried like a paper kite.What had that flower to do with being white,The blue prunella every…
There were three in the meadow by the brook,
With an eye always lifted toward the west,Where an irregular, sun-bordered cloudDarkly advanced with a perpetual daggerFlickering across its bosom. SuddenlyOne helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed.The town-bred farmer failed to understand.What was there wrong?Something you said just now.What did I say?About our taking pains.To cock the…
The Wood-Pile – Poem by Robert Frost
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,I paused and said, “I will turn back from here.No, I will go on farther — and we shall see.”The hard snow held me, save where now and thenOne foot went through. The view was all in linesStraight up and down of tall slim treesToo much alike…