Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.
Vague dream head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.
But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.
That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.
I had the chance to visit a farm this past weekend that was home to Robert Frost from 1900 - 1911. It was from this simple kitchen table that he wrote much of his early poetry. I love the thought that he wrote, not from a place of isolation or solitude, but from the middle of a busy house, full of kids and farm hands. This lovely place is just twenty minutes from my house, and has grounds I've yet to wander. I have a feeling I will be drawn back here often......
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