Explore "Rose Pogonias" by Robert Frost on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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 favoured, / Obtain such grace of hours, / That none should mow the grass there / While so confused with flowers.