(Robert Lee Frost)

The Runaway

Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,
We stopped by a mountain pasture to say Whose colt?
A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,
The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head
And snorted at us. And then he had to bolt.
We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,
And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and grey,
Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.
I think the little fellows afraid of the snow.
He isnt winter-broken. It isnt play
With the little fellow at all. Hes running away.
I doubt if even his mother could tell him, Sakes,
Its only weather. Hed think she didnt know !
Where is his mother? He cant be out alone.
And now he comes again with a clatter of stone
And mounts the wall again with whited eyes
And all his tail that isnt hair up straight.
He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.
Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,
When other creatures have gone to stall and bin,
Ought to be told to come and take him in.

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