A picture is like a split-rail fence
Or sky with heft as breaking road
Or any way in words can be taken hence
Ten minutes; it all splits where time will go.

And I shall keep the sun upon my arm
Of love that was not kept for long
Until I came again across the farm
Where gravity gives only to the song.

So call the reader in: the wood was near
Where they will take you there with all the trees
And everyone would finally be whose we are
And laid one-on-one by every wish with ease.

Yet every glance returns from where it came
And soon not back to bring it into sight.
It’s scattered sun that catches more than flame,
But stirs me on like paper meant to write.

• Robert Frost