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
Editors’ Note: The Yale Review is committed to publishing pieces from its archive as they originally appeared, without alterations to spelling, content, or style. Occasionally, errors creep in due to the digitization process; we work to correct these errors as we find them. You can email [email protected] with any you find.
Robert Frost was an American poet and four-time recipient of the Pulitzer Prize. He died in 1963.
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