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Rose Pogonias Poem By Robert Frost

Rose Pogonias Poem By Robert Frost

A saturated meadow,
Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A crrcle scarcely wIder,
Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were qUIte excluded,
And the aIr was stilling sweet
With the breath of many Howers,-
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 every second spear
Seemed tipped WIth wings of color,
That tinged the atmosphere.
We raised a Simple prayer
Befure 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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