Tag Archives: Robert Frost

You have lost a treasure. So have I.

I ask you: when was the last time you looked up at the night sky and saw countless stars? Countless stars that you saw as a child. Countless stars that are there but the lights of your city would not let you see them. Countless stars that you received from your parents and should have gifted to your children. You have lost a treasure. So have I.


A Sarah Williams poem:


Blinded by the Light


Look Ma,

What’s that star?

It’s just a passing plane.

Grandma sighs so sadly,

The nights just aren’t the same;

I’m sure they used to be darker;

Wonder filled the skies;

Where have all the stars gone?

Could it be my failing eyes?

Too many of our children

Haven’t known a true dark night;

Will they ever see the beauty

We’re losing to the light?


A Robert Frost poem:


A Question

A voice said, Look me in the stars

And tell me truly, men of earth,

If all the soul-and-body scars

Were not too much to pay for birth.




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Fireflies in the Garden


Here come real stars to fill the upper skies, 

And here on earth come emulating flies, 

That though they never equal stars in size, 

(And they were never really stars at heart) 

Achieve at times a very star-like start. 

Only, of course, they can’t sustain the part.

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raat yuun dil mein teri khooyi hui yaad aayi

A Robert Frost poem:


Acquainted with the Night


I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.


I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.


I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,


But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height,

O luminary clock against the sky


Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.





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Night is the time to weep,

To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory where sleep

the joys of other years.

Hopes, that were Angels at their birth,

But perished young, like things of earth.

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