By the roadside the salt meadow stands, Two white rains have been pouring there And sweet sounds of rest were heard upon the croqueting lands. There a light breeze skirts along the -

The lovely morning mist which held, behold, Returning now to see the tide that now blows here, In silence gliding across the most soft grass fields, With a gentle vision wandering near.

The cradle lay cradled in sudden sun, Around the corner sipped the air until I tasted red: As I called surreal reflections resting high along the fields, To bring about the dream in its tiny way foreseen.

• Robert Frost