To A Moth Seen In Winter Poem By Robert Frost,
Here’s first a gloveless hand warm from my pocket,
A perch and resting place ‘tWIxt wood and wood,
Bright-black-eyed silvery creature, brushed wlth brown,
The wings not folded in repose, but spread.
(Who would you be, I wonder, by those marks
If I had moths to friend as I have flowers?)
And now pray tell what lured you with false hope
To make the venture of eternity
And seek the love of kind in wintertime?
But stay and hear me out. I surely thmk
You make a labor of Hight for one so airy,
Spending yourself too much in self-support
Nor will you :find love either nor love you.
And what I pity in you is something human,
The old incurable untimeliness,
Only begetter of all ills that are.
But go. You are right. My pity cannot help.
Go hll you wet your pinions and are quenched.
You must be made more simply WIse than I
To lmow the hand I stretch impulsively,
Across the gulf of well nigh everythIng,
May reach to you, but cannot touch your fate.
r cannot touch your life, much less can save,
Who am tasked to save my own a httle while.