A Line-storm Song

by Robert Frost

  


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 themselvesIn the wood-world's torn despairThan now these numberless years the elves,Although they are no less there:All song of the woods is crushed like someWild, 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 behindAnd bruit our singing down,And the shallow waters aflutter with windFrom 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 breastThe rain-fresh goldenrod.Oh, never this whelming east wind swellsBut it seems like the sea's returnTo the ancient lands where it left the shellsBefore the age of the fern;And it seems like the time when after doubtOur love came back amain.Oh, come forth into the storm and routAnd be my love in the rain.


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