Bereft
| Poetry
is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with
ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the
delicate, tough skin of words. – Paul Engle |
| Bereft Where had I heard this wind before Change like this to a deeper roar? What would it take my standing there for, Holding open a restive door, Looking down hill to a frothy shore? Summer was past and the day was past. Sombre clouds in the west were massed. Out on the porch's sagging floor, Leaves got up in a coil and hissed, Blindly struck at my knee and missed. Something sinister in the tone Told me my secret must be known: Word I was in the house alone Somehow must have gotten abroad, Word I was in my life alone, Word I had no one left but God. Poem By Robert Frost |
Daily Poem Index
