Stormy

Well it has been stormy today, probably not nearly as much as some people have had, but relentless Brendan-shaped rain being blown around all day.  I didn't go out.  Instead I did a bit of desultory cleaning, drank coffee, ate a choc or four two and read.  All poetry so far - my much loved copy of Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf - and I found the following Robert Frost poem about a storm.  A summer storm, as it happens, but rather lovely, don't you think?


A Line-storm Song
 
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, 
  The road is forlorn all day, 
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, 
  And the hoof-prints vanish away. 
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
  Expend their bloom in vain. 
Come over the hills and far with me, 
  And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves 
  In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves, 
  Although they are no less there: 
All song of the woods is crushed like some 
  Wild, easily shattered rose. 
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
  Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind 
  And bruit our singing down, 
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind 
  From which to gather your gown.    
What matter if we go clear to the west, 
  And come not through dry-shod? 
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast 
  The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells   
  But it seems like the sea’s return 
To the ancient lands where it left the shells 
  Before the age of the fern; 
And it seems like the time when after doubt 
  Our love came back amain.      
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout 
  And be my love in the rain.
 
Robert Frost


And now it's getting dark so must class pretty well as Tuesday evening.  Have a good one  xx