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Flower-Gathering I left you in the morning, And in the morning glow, You walked a way beside me To make me sad to go. Do you know me in the gloaming, Gaunt and dusty grey with roaming? Are you dumb because you know me not, Or dumb because you know? All for me? And not a question For the faded flowers gay That could take me from beside you For the ages of a day? They are yours, and be the measure Of their worth for you to treasure, The measure of the little while That I’ve been long away.
Flower-Gathering, by Robert Frost
A flower unplucked is but left to the falling, And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.”
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still, No longer blown hither and thither; The last lone aster is gone; The flowers of the witch-hazel wither; The heart is still aching to seek, But the feet question ‘Whither?’
I sympathise. I know just how it feels To think of the right thing to say too late.
Part of a moon was falling down the west, Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills. Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand Among the harp-like morning-glory strings, Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves, As if she played unheard the tenderness That wrought on him beside her in the night.
I’ll sit and see if that small sailing cloud Will hit or miss the moon.”
It hit the moon. Then there were three there, making a dim row, The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.
Two that don’t love can’t live together without them. But two that do can’t live together with them.”
“It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit. I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot.
They won’t be too friendly—they may be polite—
You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain, The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves, Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves.”
You take the lake. I look and look at it. I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water.
Like a deep piece of some old running river Cut short off at both ends.
It’s rest I want—there, I have said it out— From cooking meals for hungry hired men And washing dishes after them—from doing Things over and over that just won’t stay done.
You know the old idea—the only asylum Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford, Rather than send their folks to such a place, Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.
I’ve lain awake thinking of you, I’ll warrant, More than you have yourself, some of these nights.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
an irregular sun-bordered cloud Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger Flickering across its bosom.
They are that that talks of going But never gets away; And that talks no less for knowing, As it grows wiser and older, That now it means to stay.
