<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506927" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Waiting -- Afield At Dusk</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">What things for dream there are when spectre-like, <br>Moving among tall haycocks lightly piled, <br>I enter alone upon the stubble field, <br>From which the laborers' voices late have died, <br>And in the antiphony of afterglow <br>And rising full moon, sit me down <br>Upon the full moon's side of the first haycock <br>And lose myself amid so many alike. <br>I dream upon the opposing lights of the hour, <br>Preventing shadow until the moon prevail; <br>I dream upon the night-hawks peopling heaven, <br>Each circling each with vague unearthly cry, <br>Or plunging headlong with fierce twang afar; <br>And on the bat's mute antics, who would seem <br>Dimly to have made out my secret place, <br>Only to lose it when he pirouettes, <br>And seek it endlessly with purblind haste; <br>On the last swallow's sweep; and on the rasp <br>In the abyss of odor and rustle at my back, <br>That, silenced by my advent, finds once more, <br>After an interval, his instrument, <br>And tries once-twice-and thrice if I be there; <br>And on the worn book of old-golden song <br>I brought not here to read, it seems, but hold <br>And freshen in this air of withering sweetness; <br>But on the memory of one absent most, <br>For whom these lines when they shall greet her eye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Frost">Robert Frost</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506927" data-title="Waiting -- Afield At Dusk de Robert Frost" data-description="What things for dream there are when spectre-like, Moving among tall haycocks lightly piled, I enter alone upon the stubble field, From which the laborers' voices late have died, And in the antiphony of afterglow And rising full moon, sit me ..."></div> </div> </div>

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