A SATURATED meadow,
Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,
And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers, --
A temple of the hear.

There we bowed us in the burning,
As the sun's right worship is,
To pick where none could miss them
A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered,
yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color,
That tinged the atmosphere.

We raised a simple prayer
Before we left the spot,
That in the general mowing
That place might be forgot;
Or if not all so favored,
Obtain such grace of hours,
that none should mow the grass there
While so confused with flowers.

Added: on February 16th, 2006 at 6:45 PM | Viewed: 8822 times | Comments (5)

Poet: Robert Frost
Poem: 12. Rose Pogonias
Volume: A Boy's Will
Year: Published/Written in 1913
Poem of the Day: Jun 22 2005

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