I've Got Spring Fever, Bishes...

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TO THE THAWING WIND Come with rain, O loud Southwester! Bring the singer, bring the nester; Give the buried flower a dream; Make the settled snow-bank steam; Find the brown beneath the white; But whate'er you do to-night, Bathe my window, make it flow, Melt it as the ice will go; Melt the glass and leave the sticks Like a hermit's crucifix; Burst into my narrow stall; Swing the picture on the wall; Run the rattling pages o'er; Scatter poems on the floor; Turn the poet out of door.

~ Robert Frost

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The Investment

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Over back where they speak of life as staying("You couldn't call it living, for it ain't"), There was an old, old house renewed with paint, And in it a piano loudly playing.

Out in the ploughed ground in the cold a digger, Among the unearthed potatoes standing still, Was counting winter dinners, one a hill, With half an ear to the piano's vigor.

All that piano and new paint back there, Was it some money suddenly come into? Or some extravagance young love had been to? Or old love on an impulse not to care -

Not to sink under being man and wife, But get some color and music out of life?

~ Robert Frost (March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)

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