The Old Barn At The Bottom Of The Fogs Poem By Robert Frost,
- vVhere’s thIs barn’s house? It never had a house,
Or jomed wIth sheds in ring-around a dooryard
The hunter scuffiing leaves goes by at dusk,
The gun reversed that he went out WIth shouldered.
The harvest moon and then the hunter’s moon
Well, the moon after that came one at last
To close this outpost barn and close the season.
The fur-tIung, muff-thing, rocking in and out
Across the threshold in the twIhght fled him.
He took the props down used for proppIng open,
And set them up again for propping shut,
The Wide-spread double doors two stories high.
The advantage-disadvantage of these doors
Was that tramp taking sanctuary there
Must leave them unlocked to betray his presence.
They could be locked but from the outsIde only.
There is a fellow on the ocean now
Or down a mine or at the mIll (I met lum)
Who slept there in a mow of meadow hay
One night (he told me). And the bam he meant
Was the one I meant. Our details agreed.
We said Well twice to what we had in common,
The old barn at the bottom of the fogs.
Its only windows were the crevices
All up and down it. So that waking there
Next morning to the light of day was more
Like waking in a cage of silver bars.
Its locks were props-and that reminded him.
Trust him to have his bitter politics
Against rus unacquaintances the rich
Who sleep in houses of their own, though mortgaged.
Conservatives, they don’t know what to save.
ConsIder what they treasure undel glass,
Yet leave sudl lovely shafts outdools to pensh.
Would someone only act in time we yet
Might see them on a rack hke famous oars,
Their label Prop-locks, only specimens
In chestnut now become a precious wood
As relic of a vanished race of treesWhen these go there will be none to replace them.
Yes, right I was the locks were props outside;
And it had almost given him troubled dreams,
To thInk that though he could not lock lnmseH in,
The cheapest tramp that came along that way
Could mIschievously lock hIm in to stay.
The Old Barn At The Bottom Of The Fogs Poem