January 10, 2006 @ 3:10 am | Filed under: Poetry
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.
Happy Bean, Crowned with Poetry
“Our ground time here will be brief”
“It butters no parsnips.”
And for That New Baby, a Poem