Some things are never clear.
But the weather is clear to-night,
Thanks to a clearing rain.
The mountains are brought up near,
The stars are brought out bright.
Your old sweet-cynical strain
Would come in like you here:
“So we won’t say nothing is clear.”
Voice-Ways
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.
Featured
What Happened When I Began to Speak Welsh
By learning my family's language, I hoped to join their conversation.
You Might Also Like
Coming Soon: Our Summer Issue
Two pieces by Annie Ernaux, including a print-exclusive essay. Plus a folio titled "What Was AI?" — with contributions from Sheila Heti, Lauren Oyler, Christopher Sorrentino, and others. Preorder now.
Preorder