The breath of air had died of cold,

When shoeing home across the white,

I thought I saw a bird alight.

In summer when I passed the place,

I had to stop and lift my face;

A bird with an angelic gift

Was singing in it sweet and swift.

No bird was singing in it now.

A single leaf was on the bough,

And that was all there was to see

In going twice around the tree.

From my advantage on the hill

I judged that such a crystal chill

Was only adding frost to snow

As gilt to gold that wouldn't show.

A brush had left a crooked stroke

Of what was either cloud or smoke

From north to south across the blue;

A piercing little star was through.

These excerpts are from “The Poetry of Robert Frost ”, edited by Edward Connery Lathem and published by Holt, Rinehart and Winston of Canada, Limited.(1866).