A Brook In The City

November 8, 2013 — Leave a comment
The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square
With the new city street it has to wear
A number in.
 
 
But what about the brook
That held the house as in an elbow-crook?
I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength
And impulse, having dipped a finger length
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
A flower to try its currents where they crossed.
 
 
The meadow grass could be cemented down
From growing under pavements of a town;
The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook the same?
How else dispose of an immortal force
No longer needed?
Staunch it at its source
With cinder loads dumped down?
 
The brook was thrown
Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to live and run — And all for nothing it had ever done
Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would know except for ancient maps
That such a brook ran water.
But I wonder If from its being kept forever under,
The thoughts may not have risen that so keep
This new-built city from both work and sleep.
 
–Robert Frost
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