Poems of Robert Frost. Large Collection, includes A Boy's Will, North of Boston and Mountain Interval (17 page)

“Don’t you hear something else?”

“Not talking.”

“No.”

“Why, yes, I hear—what is it?”

“What do you say it is?”

“A baby’s crying!

Frantic it sounds, though muffled and far off.”

“Its mother wouldn’t let it cry like that,

Not if she’s there.”

“What do you make of it?”

“There’s only one thing possible to make,

That is, assuming—that she has gone out.

Of course she hasn’t though.” They both sat down

Helpless. “There’s nothing we can do till morning.”

“Fred, I shan’t let you think of going out.”

“Hold on.” The double bell began to chirp.

They started up. Fred took the telephone.

“Hello, Meserve. You’re there, then!—And your wife?

Good! Why I asked—she didn’t seem to answer.

He says she went to let him in the barn.—

We’re glad. Oh, say no more about it, man.

Drop in and see us when you’re passing.”

“Well,

She has him then, though what she wants him for

I
don’t
see.”

“Possibly not for herself.

Maybe she only wants him for the children.”

“The whole to-do seems to have been for nothing.

What spoiled our night was to him just his fun.

What did he come in for?—To talk and visit?

Thought he’d just call to tell us it was snowing.

If he thinks he is going to make our house

A halfway coffee house ’twixt town and nowhere——”

“I thought you’d feel you’d been too much concerned.”

“You think you haven’t been concerned yourself.”

“If you mean he was inconsiderate

To rout us out to think for him at midnight

And then take our advice no more than nothing,

Why, I agree with you. But let’s forgive him.

We’ve had a share in one night of his life.

What’ll you bet he ever calls again?”

I wonder about the trees.

Why do we wish to bear

Forever the noise of these

More than another noise

So close to our dwelling place?

We suffer them by the day

Till we lose all measure of pace,

And fixity in our joys,

And acquire a listening air.

They are that that talks of going

But never gets away;

And that talks no less for knowing,

As it grows wiser and older,

That now it means to stay.

My feet tug at the floor

And my head sways to my shoulder

Sometimes when I watch trees sway,

From the window or the door.

I shall set forth for somewhere,

I shall make the reckless choice

Some day when they are in voice

And tossing so as to scare

The white clouds over them on.

I shall have less to say,

But I shall be gone.