November Guests by Hilda Friday

On an evening stroll, my friend and I
        Walked through woods a man to find
Below a dark November sky
And whistling a lullaby
        Our footsteps hushed within the pines

We found him upon the trail’s crest,
        Darkened, solemn, on his stone,
acquainted us to him as guests,
and soothed our nerves with quiet jests
        We were glad to not be alone

Around us was a whispered roar
        At odds with our quiet, tranquil eve
From the distant road and the generator
From nature and men at civil war
        Yet at last that we disdained to perceive

The stars in that blue-black sky had gleamed
        Which the pointed pines had deigned to frame
campus lights glowed, linear, schemed
The bell tower’s dome boasted golden sheen
        Leaves turned white from the moon’s white flame

Cold, at my side, was the man we’d found
        Who here had walked once long ago
He listened now without a sound
to our murmurings unbound
        What he’d say we couldn’t know

Yet I had felt in that early eve
        His youthful spirit’s quiet breath
From when he, like me, was young, unseen,
And wandered the woods, the books, the green
        And found words for him to live past death

Tribute to Robert Frost