“Like a piece of ice on a hot stove a poem must ride on its own melting ... Read it a hundred times, it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.”
– Robert Frost
I almost always think of Robert Frost’s poetry when I hear or see things in nature. This morning, unlike the bird that bothers Frost in his short poem below, the bird near our house is not singing off-key but, instead, just creating angry noise.
But I decided a noisy bird is still better than no bird. I just wish, like the bird Frost is annoyed with in his poem, it would work a little on its singing. For Saturday’s Poem, here is Frost’s,
A Minor Bird
I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;
Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.
And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.
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