Am meisten gelesen ▸
Robert Frost
One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.
I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.
I do not see why I should e’er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.
They would not find me changed from him they knew--
Only more sure of all I thought was true.
out in woods I stay
longer than ice
longer than hurt
not able to stir all afternoon
at the door to the woods
I exchange reason for heart
my life for a little dance
pretty as pitch
who will see the forest
’round that melancholy tree the brain
that goes to the light
with a thorn
a green wind at the door
I let it in to play
and it began to play with fire
I ordered it out and it went
and got lost in the forest
till the moon made it
go to sleep in a bottle
the street full
of a great forest
ivy stops business
I find a discrete coffee house
where we take some out-of-town light
to profit off the morning
to argue mightily with little reason
I pretend to know
whether I do or not
a word too low to hear
went forth with me into the woods
like a cool furniture of air
we listen
to everything new
tent in the woods
in the woods I found
good company
everyone was absent as a drunk
present as an old sign
I spoke one word
and away home
Where the buck took a hunter’s bullet & lay down
in the laurel, a dozen chipmunks are calling
in unison – mallets on a xylophone
all striking the same, middle bar.
Too much moderation seems a dangerous thing.
We are only ever saved by what exceeds us.
When old fields fall to subdivisions,
the kinds of thoughts that need an unbroken span of sky
vanish along with the hiccup of the Henslow’s sparrow,
the wind in the grass.
A few house lots hazarded in the forest
& the wolves begin to forget how to lope,
halt in the middle of a howl –
a freight train wailing through the gap two hundred years later.
All it lacks is the shiver – such a small thing.
It hardly seems reasonable to demand the return
a moth in the woods is her own light
serving not the expected dark joy
but haste and a heart studious to be a room
I wake by 4:00 o’clock
to any day but my own
here a forest here a clearing
here a dead body and his imp of a fly
it is midsummer in the country of grief
nothing is done but trade
dinner for dinner
a fancy tune for a glass
and sorry for however
present a loss
I hear that Parliament is against
the scandal of nature
which if too much provoked
shall go to bed