Explore "The Census-Taker" by Robert Frost on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I came an errand one cloud-blowing evening / To a slab-built, black-paper-covered house / Of one room and one window and one door, / The only dwelling in a waste cut over / A hundred square miles round it in the mountains: / And that not dwelt in now by men or women / (It never had been dwelt in, though, by women, / So what is this I make a sorrow of? )
I came as census-taker to the waste / To count the people in it and found none, / None in the hundred miles, none in the house, / Where I came last with some hope, but not much / After hours' overlooking from the cliffs / An emptiness flayed to the very stone.