“The Cow in Apple Time”, a poem by Robert Frost

As I drink my cider, read my Frost, and think about earlier autumn days with my family at a particular apple orchard we used to go to, I came across this poem.  I hope it will make you smile or even laugh as it did for me.

“The Cow in Apple Time”

Something inspires the only cow of late

To make no more of a wall than open gate,

And think no more of wall-builders than fools.

Her face flecked with pomace and she drools

A cider syrup.  Having tasted fruit,

She scorns a pasture withering to the root.

She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten

The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.

She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.

She bellows on a knoll against the sky.

Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.

– Robert Frost

Happy Apple Season!

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The Wood-Pile, by Robert Frost

As you might have guessed by now, I’m a big fan of Robert Frost.  Well here is another wintry poem for you…enjoy.

The Wood-Pile

Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day
I paused and said, ‘I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther- and we shall see’.
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tail slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather-
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled- and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year’s snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year’s cutting,
Or even last year’s or the year’s before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself the labour of his axe,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
· To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.

-Robert Frost, 1915

A Wintry Poem for an awfully Wintry Evening

It is February 1st, 2011, and Chicago is being hit by a major blizzard.  The city sits tonight, waiting for this weatherly chaos to pass.  As it passes, what to do?  How about some poetry from my favorite poet of all time!  Robert Frost!  A rather befitting poem.

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

– Robert Frost