"Hello, Meserve. You're there, then! And your wife?
Good! Why I asked-she didn't seem to answer.
He says she went to let him in the barn.
We're glad. Oh, say no more about it, man.
Drop in and see us when you're passing.'

"Well,

She has him then, though what she wants him for
I don't see.'

"Possibly not for herself.

Maybe she only wants him for the children."

"The whole to-do seems to have been for nothing.
What spoiled our night was to him just his fun.
What did he come in for? To talk and visit?
Thought he'd just call to tell us it was snowing.
If he thinks he is going to make our house

A half-way coffee-house 'twixt town and nowhere"

"I thought you'd feel you'd been too much concerned."

"You think you haven't been concerned yourself."

"If you mean he was inconsiderate

To rout us out to think for him at midnight
And then take our advice no more than nothing,
Why, I agree with you. But let's forgive him.
We've had a share in one night of his life.

What'll you bet he ever calls again?"

Robert Frost

TO W. J. C.

October 5th, 1848-September 19th, 1916

Why is it, when they wreathe about your name
Garlands of praise-cry soldier, diplomat,
Lover of justice, statesman; and enrich

The pillage of their hearts with bitter tears
For your great heart that beats no more-
Why do I see only that tilt of the lip

And gleam of the eyes, the sudden whimsical smile
That used to break the grand lines of your face?-
And hear only some little tender word,

Some love-joke tripping up our futile pride.

With doubt of human grandeur?

Sweet-oh, brave!

Oh, brave and sweet through the strange sun-shot maze

You passed unwavering-holding out your hands

To give and bless, freeing your eager mind

In warm bold words, opening wide your eyes
To see the light, follow the clearing path
Out to great spaces.

Go-go forth! They win you.

I see you there against the sunset glow

Waving your hand, smiling your quizzical smile.

"What next?" I hear you say. Then the sun flaunts

Its crimson to the zenith, and goes down

To make another day. And you are gone.

But they plucked the boughs of the Kalina,
They made great bunches.

Such is my fortune-oh, unhappy fortune!

And on a day they married me.

As I was bidden

I married-and, my blinded eyes,
Forever hidden,

The world grew dark upon that morning.
Such is my fortune-oh, unhappy fortune!

Is there no river that I may drown in?
Was there none other

Than he, the youth to whom they wed me,
Father and mother?

Rivers a-plenty can be found here,

But dry the bed now.

And youths-brave, gallant youths are countless;

But they are dead now!

Song of Departure

SONG OF DEPARTURE

A bride of Bukovina speaks:

Dear my mother, weep not-
I shall not take all;
See, the cows and oxen
Leave I in the stall.

I take just black eyebrows,
Only eyes of blue;

And upon your table

Tears I leave for you;

And the little pathway
Where my footsteps fell
While I brought you water
Daily from the well.

Her mother speaks:

Pathway, little garden

(Ah, she must depart!)

While I gaze upon you

Faints my breaking heart.

RUTHENIAN LOVERS

"In the fields grows the rye, rye that is green, is green! Tell me, my lover, how livest thou, when never my face is

seen ?"

"Out in the fields, down-beaten, rye lies upon its faceSo do I live without thee, the good Lord giving his grace."

MY FIELD, MY FIELD

Fragment of a very old song

O my field, my field!

Ploughed with bones,

Harrowed with my breast,

Watered with blood

From the heart, from the bosom

Tell me, my field,

When will better days be?

My field, O my field
By my grandfather won,
Why dost thou not give

Me the means of life?

Bitter toil! with my own blood stained

My heart's blood is there!

How bitter for me, my field,

To look on thee!

Done in English by

Florence Randal Livesay