Rose Pogonias

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.

by Robert Frost

Comments (4)

DIE POTATO DIE, BUT WAIT I BAKED YOU A PIE, OH BOY WHAT FLAVOR, PIE, PIE, PIE
' that none should mow the grass there while so confused with flowers'- wild nature- beautiful line
that none should mow the grass there While so confused with flowers. Beautiful poem shared.
Not many people like to see something beautiful destroyed.