Over back where they speak of life as staying <br />('You couldn't call it living, for it ain't'), <br />There was an old, old house renewed with paint, <br />And in it a piano loudly playing. <br /> <br />Out in the plowed ground in the cold a digger, <br />Among unearthed potatoes standing still, <br />Was counting winter dinners, one a hill, <br />With half an ear to the piano's vigor. <br /> <br />All that piano and new paint back there, <br />Was it some money suddenly come into? <br />Or some extravagance young love had been to? <br />Or old love on an impulse not to care-- <br /> <br />Not to sink under being man and wife, <br />But get some color and music out of life?<br /><br />Robert Lee Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/investment-the/
