The Thatch Poem By Robert Frost
Out alone In the WIn tel rain,
Intent on gIvIng and talang paIn.
But never was I far out of sIght
Of a certaIn upper-wIndow lIght.
The hght was what it was all about.
I would not go In tIll the hght went out,
It would not go out tIll I came ill.
Well, we should see whICh one would WIn,
We should see whICh one would be first to YIeld
The world was a black mvislble field.
The raIn by rights was snow for cold.
The WInd was another layer of mold
But the strangest thing. in the thick old thatch,
Where summer bIrds had been given hatch,
Had fed In chorus, and lived to Hedge,
Some stIll were liVIng in hermitage.
And as I passed along the eaves,
So low I brushed the straw WIth my sleeves,
I Hushed birds out of hole after hole,
Into the darkness. It grieved my soul,
It started a grief WIthIn a grief,
To think their case was beyond reliefThey could not go flymg about ill search
Of their nest again. nor find a perch.
They must brood where they fell in mulch and mIre,
Trusting feathers and inward fire
Till daylight made It safe for a flyer.
My greater grief was by so much reduced
As I thought of them without nest or roost.
That was how that grief started to melt.
They tell me the cottage where we dwelt,
Its wind-torn thatch goes now unmended;
Its life of hundreds of years has ended,
By letting the rain I knew outdoors
In on to the upper chamber floors.