A Field-Mouse The grass lay low,
Crouched in little mounds
Where the field-mouse built a house
It nestled to lean low of a skull,
Beginnings worth remembering at night.
Fingers of grass returned, unbent,
Like wicker, as over them I lay—
How gentle safe this cave, as centuries pass
Where wild earth warmed the stones and let me sleep.

The springtime then, o’er every waving eye;
It soaked the wind like dandelion leaves
Deep into all the repose that ever sang;
Auroras flowing fine like silk-like bright.
These days with their brushing of her grass-sleeves—
And bleached the days over with sunshine long,
All breathe of every waited thought of air,
To sing to me that I shall care—this hole
Holds equal bonds against the eye of life!
To hold her fast; and all wild creatures’ hands
Shall hold true, granted they know their right!—
Curling to time, so visit them all light;— To keep each touch of that gaze’s path o’er fire!
As by the warmth of over-rolling curl of life
I—so tranquil—deep as love can dream!

• Robert Frost