Ti-Ie Birthplace Poem By Robert Frost
Here furtllel up the mountaIn slope,
Than there was ever any hope,
My father buIlt, enclosed a spnng,
Strung chains of wall round everythIng,
Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
And brought our vanous lives to pass.
A dozen gIrls and boys we were.
The mountaIn seemed to lIke the stir,
And made of us a lIttle whIleWith always something in her smile.
Today she ‘wouldn’t know our name
(No gIrl’s, of course, has stayed the same.)
The mountaIn pushed us off her knees.
And now her lap IS full of trees.