Robert Frost

All crying, “We will go with you, O Wind,”
     The foliage follow him, leaf and stem,
But a sleep oppresses them as they go,
     And they end by bidding him stay with them.

Since ever they flung abroad in spring
     The leaves have promised themselves this flight,
Who now would fain seek sheltering wall,
     Or thicket, or hollow place for the night.

And now they answer the summoning blast
     With an ever vaguer and vaguer stir,
Or, at utmost, a little reluctant whirl
     That drops them no further than where they were.

I only hope that when I am free,
     As they are free, to go in quest
Of the knowledge beyond the bounds of life,
     It may not seem better to me to rest.

Robert Frost was an American poet and four-time recipient of the Pulitzer Prize. He died in 1963.
Originally published:
January 1, 1921


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