Poem

Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons.   I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer Running away.   But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face.   I may load and unload Again and again Till I fill the whole shed, And what have I then?   Next to nothing for weight, And since they grew duller From contact with earth, Next to nothing for color.   Next to nothing for use, But a crop is a crop, And who’s to say where The harvest shall stop? ROBERT FROST POEM: The CodeHeroics

There were three in the meadow by the brook,  Gathering up windrows, piling haycocks up, With an eye always lifted toward the west, Where an irregular, sun-bordered cloud Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground, Marched himself of the field and home. one stayed. The town-bred farmer failed to understand. What was there wrong?         Something you said just now. What did I say?         About our taking pains. To cock the hay?-because it's going to shower? I said that nearly half an hour ago. I said it to myself as much as you. You didn;t know. But James is one big fool. He thought you meant to find fault with his work. That's what the average farmer would have meant. James had to take his time to chew it over Before he acted; he's just got round to act. He is fool if that's the way he takes me. ROBERT FROST Poem: The Aim Was Song...

Before man came to blow it right      The wind once blew itself untaught, And did its loudest day and night      In any rough place where it caught. Man came to tell it what was wrong:      It hadn’t found the place to blow; It blew too hard—the aim was song.      And listen—how it ought to go! He took a little in his mouth,      And held it long enough for north To be converted into south,      And then by measure blew it forth. By measure. It was word and note,      The wind the wind had meant to be— A little through the lips and throat.      The aim was song—the wind could see. By: ROBERT FROST ROBERT FROST POEM: The CodeHeroics