Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question ‘Whither?’
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
Public domain
One of the first poems I memorized, long before I was a poet myself. I still don’t understand why he started stanza 3 with “And,” but ours is not to reason why… Thanks, Mike/Michael, for posting this today. xo
Vox Populi 
Love this one. Thanks for posting. Charlie
Sent from my iPhone
>
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Charlie!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Lovely! Thanks for posting this!–Judy Brice
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thanks, Judy!
LikeLiked by 2 people
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
thank you for this
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Russell!
LikeLiked by 2 people
One of the first poems I memorized, long before I was a poet myself. I still don’t understand why he started stanza 3 with “And,” but ours is not to reason why… Thanks, Mike/Michael, for posting this today. xo
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Molly!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you. Sometimes you just need a poem.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thanks, Barbara!
LikeLiked by 3 people
Apart from being one of the many Robert Frost lovers – this is a particularly gorgeous poem.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thanks, Rosemary!
LikeLiked by 3 people