by Robert Frost
Now close the windows and hush all the fields:
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.
It will be long ere the marshes resume,
It will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.
Poetry Friday: Moving
Poetry Friday: Rigs o’ Rye
Poetry Good Friday: Donne, Of Course
Sing, cuckoo, sing
Poetry with kids, Storified