Robert Frost

By noon the snow had loosened its white hand from every stem. Beneath it, the meadow kept the small green grammar of beginning— one blade, then another, lifting its head. Meltwater traveled in silver...

Before the garden wakes, the gate is jeweled with the night. Each drop contains a smaller world, untroubled, round, and bright. I touch the latch; the beads let go, returning leaf by leaf. The path a...

The dome opens its quiet eye above the snowbound field. No constellation leans to us; no hidden door is revealed. Still, the dark is not empty. It holds what the mind cannot keep: the slow white brea...

In the orchard, the old trees do not hurry. They carry the year in their darkened limbs— the white arithmetic of blossom, the green weight of August, the small red lanterns the thrushes leave behind. ...

I found it in the path, closed tight, a little brown house with no door. The season had folded itself inside and asked for nothing more. I carried it home beside the keys, set it near the kitchen gla...