Little things that feed the flame

A Bit of Frost in the Summer

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In my little corner, many many years ago…

I should probably start this by saying this is a bit of a cheeky post title. The summer here is uncharacteristically beautiful, light, and weightless. There isn’t any actual frost, but rather… Robert Frost. For some reason, one of his poems just keeps popping back in my head over the last few days. It is a poem that I had printed out and hung above my desk in my college dormitory room. One of the many little details to make the place my own, to cheer me up and brighten my days. And that it did. There is some force and vitality in that poem, deep, strong, and vivid as only youth can be, I suppose…

Only yesterday, I found some old photographs in my email, that I had scanned and sent to my inbox years ago. I do not remember what they were intended for. One of them is of me sitting on that exact desk in the dormitory room.

I am sure there probably is some Freudian explanation why I have remembered the poem right now, why my mind has dug it out after all these years of oblivion. But I will not wreck my head searching for it. Instead, I will share the poem with you. How about that? Some poetry on a sunny summer’s Sunday 😉



The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.

Robert Frost


One thought on “A Bit of Frost in the Summer

  1. Thanks Raimonda. Glad to be reminded of this poem and to find your blog. Regards from Thom at the immortal jukebox (give it a spin).

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