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Robert Frost, flower, in English Clear filters

DreamyRobert Frost

Wind and Window Flower

Lovers, forget your love, And list to the love of these, She a window flower, And he a winter breeze. When the frosty window veil Was melted down at noon, And the cagèd yellow bird Hung over her in tune, He marked her through the pane, He could not help but mark, And only passed her by, To come again at dark. He was a winter wind, Concerned with ice and snow. Dead weeds and unmated birds, And little of love could know.
DreamyRobert Frost

In a Vale

When I was young, we dwelt in a vale By a misty fen that rang all night, And thus it was the maidens pale I knew so well, whose garments trail Across the reeds to a window light. The fen had every kind of bloom, And for every kind there was a face, And a voice that has sounded in my room Across the sill from the outer gloom. Each came singly unto her place, But all came every night with the mist; And often they brought so much to say Of things of moment to which, they wist, One so lonely was fain to list, That the stars were almost faded away Before the last went, heavy with dew,
ContemplativeRobert Frost

Locked Out

When we locked up the house at night, We always locked the flowers outside And cut them off from window light. The time I dreamed the door was tried And brushed with buttons upon sleeves, The flowers were out there with the thieves. Yet nobody molested them! We did find one nasturtium Upon the steps with bitten stem. I may have been to blame for that: I always thought it must have been Some flower I played with as I sat At dusk to watch the moon down early.
RomanticRobert Frost

The Telephone

‘When I was just as far as I could walk From here to-day, There was an hour All still When leaning with my head against a flower I heard you talk. Don’t say I didn’t, for I heard you say-- You spoke from that flower on the window sill-- Do you remember what it was you said?’ ‘First tell me what it was you thought you heard.’ ‘Having found the flower and driven a bee away, I leaned my head, And holding by the stalk, I listened and I thought I caught the word-- What was it? Did you call me by my name? Or did you say--
RomanticRobert Frost

A Late Walk

When I go up through the mowing field, The headless aftermath, 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 birds Up from the tangle of withered weeds Is sadder than any words. A 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 from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.
ContemplativeRobert Frost

In Hardwood Groves

The same leaves over and over again! They fall from giving shade above To make one texture of faded brown And fit the earth like a leather glove. Before the leaves can mount again To fill the trees with another shade, They must go down past things coming up, They must go down into the dark decayed. They must be pierced by flowers and put Beneath the feet of dancing flowers. However it is in some other world I know that this is the way in ours.
InspiredRobert Frost

The Tuft of Flowers

I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. The dew was gone that made his blade so keen Before I came to view the levelled scene. I looked for him behind an isle of trees; I listened for his whetstone on the breeze. But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been,--alone, ‘As all must be,’ I said within my heart, ‘Whether they work together or apart.’ But as I said it, swift there passed me by On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly, Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight. And once I marked his flight go round and round, As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
ContemplativeRobert Frost

The Last Mowing

There’s a place called Far-away Meadow We never shall mow in again, Or such is the talk at the farmhouse: The meadow is finished with men. Then now is the chance for the flowers That can’t stand mowers and plowers. It must be now; though, in season Before the not mowing brings trees on, Before trees, seeing the opening, March into a shadowy claim. The trees are all I’m afraid of, That flowers can’t bloom in the shade of; It’s no more men I’m afraid of; The meadow is done with the tame. The place for the moment is ours For you, oh tumultuous flowers,
ContemplativeRobert Frost

Lodged

The rain to the wind said ‘You push and I’ll pelt.’ They so smote the garden bed That the flowers actually knelt, And lay lodged--though not dead. I know how the flowers felt.
ContemplativeRobert Frost

A Passing Glimpse

I often see flowers from a passing car That are gone before I can tell what they are. I want to get out of the train and go back To see what they were beside the track. I name all the flowers I am sure they weren’t: Not fireweed loving where woods have burnt-- Not blue bells gracing a tunnel mouth-- Not lupine living on sand and drouth. Was something brushed across my mind That no one on earth will ever find? Heaven gives its glimpses only to those Not in position to look too close.

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