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Poem by Robert Lee Frost


The Birthplace


Here further up the mountain slope
Than there was every any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of wall round everything,
Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
And brought our various lives to pass.
A dozen girls and boys we were.
The mountain seemed to like the stir,
And made of us a little while--
With always something in her smile.
Today she wouldnt know our name.
(No girls, of course, has stayed the same.)
The mountain pushed us off her knees.
And now her lap is full of trees.



Robert Lee Frost


Robert Lee Frost's other poems:
  1. The Vantage Point
  2. Wild Grapes
  3. On Going Unnoticed
  4. Hyla Brook
  5. The Self-Seeker


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