Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall, <br />We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, “Whose colt?” <br />A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall, <br />The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head <br />And snorted to us. And then we saw him bolt. <br />We heard the miniature thunder where he fled, <br />And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and gray, <br />Like a shadow across instead of behind the flakes. <br />The little fellow’s afraid of the falling snow. <br />He never saw it before. It isn’t play <br />With the little fellow at all. He’s running away. <br />He wouldn’t believe when his mother told him, ‘Sakes, <br />It’s only weather.’ He thought she didn’t know! <br />So this is something he has to bear alone <br />And now he comes again with a clatter of stone, <br />He mounts the wall again with whited eyes <br />Dilated nostrils, and tail held straight up straight. <br />He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies. <br />“Whoever it is that leaves him out so late, <br />When all other creatures have gone to stall and bin, <br />Ought to be told to come and take him in.”<br /><br />Robert Lee Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/runaway-the/
