Frost's Road

By: Jonathan Henry

Thought the thing frost, almost I separate stars,

To even the time with few cars.

Perhaps you did it accidentally on purpose

From the burning coal,

The rekindled my soul,

To the sweat and moil,

Over the papers you toiled.

All in the house, with ice and fire.

You wrote with your goblet full of cider,

Yet it stays more popular,

Than populous.

To Washington you went,

Participating in the august occasion of the state

Something you ought to have celebrate

You spoke of the great four,

And a golden age of poetry and power,

Of which began that noon day's very hour.

Perhaps one day we may stop by some woods on a snowy evening

Even though

We still my have miles and miles to go.