February 10, 2010
The Silken Tent
She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To everything on earth the compass round,
And only by one’s going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.
- Robert Frost
Posted by Cassandra at February 10, 2010 07:38 AM
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Thank you. I haven't read Frost for quite a while, and will do so today.
Oddity of oddities, last year my wife hired a young man to weed her garden. His name was Frost, and Robert was his great uncle. Even odder, he actually knew his uncles poetry.
Posted by: bob sykes at February 10, 2010 09:25 AM
Nice. I, too, have not called on Frost in a while. But from my window this morning I can see him beckoning me from beneath the boughs of drooping fir.
"Shovel the walk," he says.
Posted by: spd rdr at February 10, 2010 10:03 AM
Kind of surprising, really. Not what one typically thinks of when one thinks, "Robert Frost".
Maybe that's why I like it so.
Posted by: Cassandra at February 10, 2010 12:32 PM