waylaid

A new poem for you, whenever it suits me.

“The poet is never the bundle of accident and incoherence that sits down to breakfast.” W B Yeats

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I had forgotten how the frogs must sound
After a year of silence, else I think
I should not so have ventured forth alone
At dusk upon this unfrequented road.


II

I am waylaid by Beauty.  Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?
Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass,
That am a timid woman, on her way
From one house to another!

Edna St. Vincent Millay