Between two burrs on the map
Was a hollow-headed snake.
The burrs were hills, the snake was a stream,
And the hollow head was a lake.
And the dot in front of a name
Was what should be a town.
And there might be a house we could buy
For only a dollar down.
With two wheels low in the ditch
We left our boiling car,
And knocked at the door of a house we found,
And there to-day we are.
It is turning three hundred years
On our cisatlantic shore
For family after family name.
We’ll make it three hundred more
For our name farming here,
Aloof yet not aloof,
Enriching soil and increasing stock,
Repairing fence and roof;
A hundred thousand days
Of front-page paper events,
A half a dozen major wars,
And forty-five presidents.
Other works by Robert Frost...
