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Rose Pogonias

Robert Frost

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 heat.

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: 31 Aug 2001 | Last Read: 21 Apr 2018 10:35 PM | Viewed: 7833 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/737/ | Viewed on 21 April 2018.
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