Rose Pogonias

Lyrics: Robert Frost
Music: Don Ray

Rose Pogonias by Robert Frost (1930)

A saturated meadow,
      Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
      Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,
      And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers, --
      A temple of the heat.

There we bowed us in the burning,
      As the sun's right worship is,
To pick where none could miss them
      A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered,
      yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color,
      That tinged the atmosphere.

We raised a simple prayer
      Before we left the spot,
That in the general mowing
      That place might be forgot;
Or if not all so favored,
      Obtain such grace of hours,
that none should mow the grass there
      While so confused with flowers.