robert frost
Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall
We stopped by a mountain pasture to say "Whose Colt?"
A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall
The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head
and snorted at us. And then he had to bolt
We heard the miniature thunder where he fled
And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and gray,
Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.
"I think the little fellow's afraid of the snow.
He isn't winter-broken. It isn't play
with the little fellow at all. He's running away.
I doubt if even his mother could tell him, 'Sakes,
its' only weather.' He'd think she didn't know!
Where is your mother? He can't be alone"
And now he comes again with a clatter of stone,
and mounts the wall again with whited eyes
and all his tail that isn't hair up straight.
He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies,
"Whoever it is that leaves him out late,
When other creatures have gone stall and bin.
Ought to be told to come and take him in."
