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Rose Pogonias
by Robert Frost
[from A Boy’s Will (1913)]

A saturated meadow,
     Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider 
     Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded, 
     And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers– 
     A temple of the heat.

There we bowed us in the burning, 
     As the sun’s right worship is,
To pick where none could miss them 
     A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered, 
     Yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color 
     That tinged the atmosphere.

We raised a simple prayer 
     Before we left the spot,
That in the general mowing 
     That place might be forgot;
Or if not all so favored, 
     Obtain such grace of hours
That none should mow the grass there 
     While so confused with flowers.