A Brook In The City

The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square
With the new city street it has to wear
A number in. But what about the brook
That held the house as in an elbow-crook?
I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength
And impulse, having dipped a finger length
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
A flower to try its currents where they crossed.
The meadow grass could be cemented down
From growing under pavements of a town;
The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook the same?
How else dispose of an immortal force
No longer needed? Staunch it at its source
With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown
Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to live and run --
And all for nothing it had ever done
Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would know except for ancient maps
That such a brook ran water. But I wonder
If from its being kept forever under,
The thoughts may not have risen that so keep
This new-built city from both work and sleep.

by Robert Frost

Comments (32)

It was the worst poem in the world, it had no meaning
Such a heartwarming poem. There is a price we pay for all this modernization. And some time it is more than just the loss of natural beauty.
WoW! ! Robert Frost just made me feel teary-eyed sympathy for the plight of a brook that once ran merrily under the sun until city sprawl pushed it underground into the smelly dank darkness of the sewer system. Actually I know how he feels- -urban sprawl has robbed me of all the desert around here that I used to ride for hours in all directions- now mile after mile of housing.
Forever Under! ! Thanks for sharing.
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