The Pasture


I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I shan't be gone long.–You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I shan't be gone long.–You come too.


Robert Frost, The Poetry of Robert Frost, ed. Edward Connery Lathem, Henry Holt & Co., 1951.