Thursday, August 28, 2014

Too much pain to type, so I'm sharing one of my favorite poems of Robert Frost--as I slowly get back up.



Robert Frost (1874–1963).  North of Boston.  1915.
 
1. The Pasture
 
 
I’M going out to clean the pasture spring;
I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.
 
I’m going out to fetch the little calf       
That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.
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