I stole forth dimly in the dripping pause
Between two downpours to see what there was,
And a masked moon had spread down compass rays
To a cone mountain in the midnight haze,
As if the final estimate were hers,
And as it measured in her calipers,
The mountain stood exalted in its place.
So love will take between the hands a face. . . .
Moon Compasses
Robert Frost
Robert Frost was an American poet and four-time recipient of the Pulitzer Prize. He died in 1963.
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