Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing—stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)—
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.
Other works by Robert Frost...
