A Line-Storm Song

A Line-Storm Song by Robert Frost The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoofprints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain, Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain. The birds have less to say for themselves In the wood-world's torn despair Than now these numberless years the elves, Although they are no less there. All song of the woods is crushed like some, Wild, easily shattered rows, come, Be my love in the wet woods, come, Where the boughs rain when it blows, There is the gale to urge behind, And bruit are singing down, And the shallow waters aflutter with wind, From which to gather our gown. What matter if we go clear to the west, And come not through dry shod? For wilding brooch shall wet your breast The rain-fresh golden rod. O, never this whelming east wind swells, But it seems like the sea's return To the ancient lands where it left the shells Before the age of the fern, And it seems like the time when, after doubt, Our love came back amain. O, come forth into the storm and rout, And be my love in the rain.