Rose Pogonias – Robert Frost

on

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 ever 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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