Robert Frost

poems:

15

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.

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