Robert Lee Frost (Роберт Ли Фрост)

Of the Stones of the Place

I farm a pasture where the boulders lie
As touching as a basketful of eggs,
And though they're nothing anybody begs,
I wonder if it wouldn't signify

For me to send you one out where you live
In wind-soil to a depth of thirty feet,
And every acre good enough to eat,
As fine as flour put through a baker's sieve.

I'd ship a smooth one you could slap and chafe,
And set up like a statue in your yard,
An eolith palladium to guard
The West and keep the old tradition safe.

Carve nothing on it. You can simply say
In self-defense to quizzical inquiry:
The portrait of the soul of my Gransir Ira.
It came from where he came from anyway.

1. Departmental
2. I Will Sing You One-O
3. But Outer Space
4. The Valley’s Singing Day
5. Rose Pogonias

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