American poetry

There's first a gloveless hand warm from my pocket,
A perch and resting place 'twixt wood and wood,
Bright-black-eyed silvery creature, brushed with brown

It was not death we came to fear but her life,
her other birth, waking remade from the womb

of that disease. One leg was withered, a dragging-

In the patient, quiet museum, she is exhibited
closed, indehiscent inside a glass casket,

reclining on her back, on hair long as her spine.

Abandon hope of sober analysis here: a new Frost poem has surfaced. There is something new in the old voice, another song in a stanza-form packed with salt and built to last, another note struck upon war broken out far away and near while another war breaks out far away and near: it’s a giddying moment for one who reached a point of such identification with that voice that he could no longer write in anything but, and trod the lanes of Amherst helplessly trying to compose in it, who did his own impressions of it at his own open mike in the woods, who wrote one last witless parody of it as some kind of shot at good riddance.