THE IMPULSE

by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)

      T was too lonely for her there,
      And too wild,
      And since there were but two of them,
      And no child,
       
      And work was little in the house,
      She was free,
      And followed where he furrowed field,
      Or felled tree.
       
      She rested on a log and tossed
      The fresh chips,
      With a song only to herself
      On her lips.
       
      And once she went to break a bough
      Of black alder.
      She strayed so far she scarcely heard
      When he called her--
       
      And didn't answer--didn't speak--
      Or return.
      She stood, and then she ran and hid
      In the fern.
       
      He never found her, though he looked
      Everywhere,
      And he asked at her mother's house
      Was she there.
       
      Sudden and swift and light as that
      The ties gave,
      And he learned of finalities
      Besides the grave.

"The Impulse" is reprinted from Mountain Interval. Robert Frost. New York: Henry Holt, 1921.

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