The west was getting out of gold,
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,
For more information about Robert Frost, see: http://www.robertfrost.org/body.html