Busy. Very busy. Grading. Grant-writing to study bears this summer. Hoof-picking and currying. Laundry – no clean underwear. You get it, yes?
Also – much weeding to do, but it's raining today. Here's a rain poem instead. Enjoy. More next week.
"A Line-storm Song"
by Robert Frost
The
line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where
a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The
roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come
over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.
The
birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than
now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All
song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come,
be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.
There
is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And
the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What
matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For
wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.
Oh,
never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To
the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And
it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh,
come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.