| Robert Frost (1874-1963). North of Boston. 1915. |
| 11. The Code |
| THERE were three in the meadow by the brook | |
| Gathering up windrows, piling cocks of hay, | |
| With an eye always lifted toward the west | |
| Where an irregular sun-bordered cloud | |
| Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger | 5 |
| Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly | |
| One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground, | |
| Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed. | |
| The town-bred farmer failed to understand. |
| "What is there wrong?" | 10 |
| "Something you just now said." | |
| "What did I say?" | |
| "About our taking pains." | |
"To cock the hay?
Popular Posts
|
