The Pasture
Robert Frost (1874–1963). North
of Boston. 1915
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I’M going out to clean the pasture spring; |
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I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away |
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(And wait to
watch the water clear, I may): |
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I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too. |
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I’m going out to fetch the little calf |
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That’s standing by
the mother. It’s so young, |
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It totters when she licks it with her tongue. |
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I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too. |
Narrow Road to a Far Province
The sun and the moon are eternal wayfarers; the years that come and go are travelers too.
A lifetime
adrift in a boat, or in old age leading a tired horse into the years,
Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
From the
earliest times there have always been some who perished along the road.
Still I have always been drawn by windblown clouds into dreams
of a lifetime of wandering.
Basho (1644-1694)