Rose Pogonias

by Robert Frost

　　

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A SATURATED meadow,Sun-shaped and jewel-small,A circle scarcely widerThan the trees around were tall;Where winds were quite excluded,And the air was stifling sweetWith the breath of many flowers,--A temple of the heat.There we bowed us in the burning,As the sun's right worship is,To pick where none could miss themA thousand orchises;For though the grass was scattered,Yet every second spearSeemed tipped with wings of color,That tinged the atmosphere.We raised a simple prayerBefore we left the spot,That in the general mowingThat place might be forgot;Or if not all so favoured,Obtain such grace of hours,That none should mow the grass thereWhile so confused with flowers.

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