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 a bough,
And that was all there was to see
In going twice around the tree.
 
From my advantage on a 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.

  • 2
  • 2
  •  
  •  
S'identifier Commentaires...

Préféré par...

Jong Gab Jo Jared DelGado
Email

Autres oeuvres par Robert Frost...

Quelques poètes qui suivent Robert Frost...

RaeAnn Ballantyne Max Sawhill Amelia Casby Joe Marflak Sebastian Murillo Misael Cureño