The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, <br />The road is forlorn all day, <br />Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, <br />And the hoof-prints vanish away. <br />The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, <br />Expend their bloom in vain. <br />Come over the hills and far with me, <br />And be my love in the rain. <br /> <br />The birds have less to say for themselves <br />In the wood-world’s torn despair <br />Than now these numberless years the elves, <br />Although they are no less there: <br />All song of the woods is crushed like some <br />Wild, easily shattered rose. <br />Come, be my love in the wet woods; come, <br />Where the boughs rain when it blows. <br /> <br />There is the gale to urge behind <br />And bruit our singing down, <br />And the shallow waters aflutter with wind <br />From which to gather your gown. <br />What matter if we go clear to the west, <br />And come not through dry-shod? <br />For wilding brooch shall wet your breast <br />The rain-fresh goldenrod. <br /> <br />Oh, never this whelming east wind swells <br />But it seems like the sea’s return <br />To the ancient lands where it left the shells <br />Before the age of the fern; <br />And it seems like the time when after doubt <br />Our love came back amain. <br />Oh, come forth into the storm and rout <br />And be my love in the rain.<br /><br />Robert Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-line-storm-song/
