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 fellow's afraid of the snow.
He isn't winter-broken. It isn't play
With the little fellow at all. He's running away.
I doubt if even his mother could tell him, "Sakes,
It's only weather". He'd think she didn't know !
Where is his mother? He can't 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 isn't 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.'

Added: on May 10th, 2009 at 1:04 PM | Viewed: 16127 times | Comments (17)

Poet: Robert Frost (Robert Frost Art)
Poem: 22. The Runaway
Volume: New Hampshire
Year: Published/Written in 1923

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, The Runaway, has received 17 comments. Click here to read them, and perhaps post a comment of your own. Of course you can also always discuss poems by Robert Frost with others on the American Poems poetry forum!