Robert Lee Frost (Роберт Ли Фрост)

The Birthplace

Here further up the mountain slope
Than there was every any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of wall round everything,
Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
And brought our various lives to pass.
A dozen girls and boys we were.
The mountain seemed to like the stir,
And made of us a little while--
With always something in her smile.
Today she wouldn’t know our name.
(No girl’s, of course, has stayed the same.)
The mountain pushed us off her knees.
And now her lap is full of trees.

1. Maple
2. Fragmentary Blue
3. The Egg and the Machine
4. The Wood-Pile
5. The Pauper Witch of Grafton

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1202

Последние стихотворения

To English version