Robert Frost, you can disparage him all you want as the Norman Rockwell of poets. Attribute that disparagement to the sacharrine Hallmark-ization of "Stopping by Woods..." But I read this this morning, on a gloomy sunny day.
A Passing Glimpse To Ridgely Torrence On Last Looking into His 'Hesperides'
by Robert Frost (1928)
I often see flowers from a passing car
That are gone before I can tell what they are.
I want to get out of the train and go back
To see what they were beside the track.
I name all the flowers I am sure they weren't;
Not fireweed loving where woods have burnt--
Not bluebells gracing a tunnel mouth--
Not lupine living on sand and drouth.
Was something brushed across my mind
That no one on earth will ever find?
Heaven gives its glimpses only to those
Not in position to look too close.