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Rose Pogonias
Robert Frost 1874 (San Francisco) – 1963 (Boston)
A saturated meadow,
Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,
And the air was stifling sweet
With 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 them
A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered,
yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color,
That tinged the atmosphere.
We raised a simple prayer
Before we left the spot,
That in the general mowing
That place might be forgot;
Or if not all so favored,
Obtain such grace of hours,
that none should mow the grass there
While so confused with flowers.
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Citation
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"Rose Pogonias" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 16 Jan. 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/30898/rose-pogonias>.