| 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 leveled scene. | |
| I looked for him behind an isle of trees; | 5 |
| 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.’ | 10 |
| But as I said it, swift there passed me by | |
| On noiseless wing a ’wildered 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, | 15 |
| As where some flower lay withering on the ground. | |
| And then he flew as far as eye could see, | |
| And then on tremulous wing came back to me. | |
| I thought of questions that have no reply, | |
| And would have turned to toss the grass to dry; | 20 |
| But he turned first, and led my eye to look | |
| At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook, | |
| A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared | |
| Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared. | |
| I left my place to know them by their name, | 25 |
| Finding them butterfly weed when I came. | |
| The mower in the dew had loved them thus, | |
| By leaving them to flourish, not for us, | |
| Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him. | |
| But from sheer morning gladness at the brim. | 30 |
| The butterfly and I had lit upon, | |
| Nevertheless, a message from the dawn, | |
| That made me hear the wakening birds around, | |
| And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground, | |
| And feel a spirit kindred to my own; | 35 |
| So that henceforth I worked no more alone; | |
| But glad with him, I worked as with his aid, | |
| And weary, sought at noon with him the shade; | |
| And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech | |
| With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach. | 40 |
| ‘Men work together,’ I told him from the heart, | |
| ‘Whether they work together or apart.’ -- Robert Frost -- from A Boy's Will |
Welcome. What you will find here will be my random thoughts and reactions to various books I have read, films I have watched, and music I have listened to. In addition I may (or may not as the spirit moves me) comment about the fantasy world we call reality, which is far stranger than fiction.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Robert Frost: March 26, 1874--January 29, 1963
Labels:
FROST Robert,
poetry,
The Tuft of Flowers
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