The Quest Of The Purple-Fringed Poem By Robert Frost,
I felt the dull of the meadow underfoot,
But the sun overhead,
And snatches of verse and song of scenes hke this
I sung or said.
I sknted the margin alders for miles and miles
In a sweepIng line.
The day was the day by every flower that blooms,
But I saw no sign.
Yet further I went to be before the scythe,
For the grass was high;
Till I saw the path where the slender fox had come
And gone pantIng by.
Then at last and followmg hIm I foundIn the very hour
“Vhen the color flushed to the petals It must have beenThe far-sought flower.
There stood the purple spires wIth no breath of air
N or headlong bee
To disturb their perfect poise the hvelong day
‘Neath the alder tree.
I only melt and putting the boughs aside
Looked, or at most
Counted them all to the buds in the copse’s depth
That were pale as a ghost.
Then I arose and silently wandered home,
And I for one
SaId that the fall mIght come and Whlll of leaves,
For summer was done.