Hoar-Frost

by Amy Lowell

Hoar-frostIn the cloud-grey mornings
I heard the herons flying;
And when I came into my garden,
My silken outer-garment
Trailed over withered leaves.
A dried leaf crumbles at a touch,
But I have seen many Autumns
With herons blowing like smoke
Across the sky.

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1 Comment

Filed under Poem

One response to “Hoar-Frost

  1. Bill Stuart

    Nice little poem. Thanks for posting Bruce

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