Robert Frost, Men moat plattelânsdingen rymje kinne

 
Men moat plattelânsdingen rymje kinne

It hûs wie ferdwûn. It jûnsrea hie
Dy kears de midsnachtloft fergnist.
Fan ’t hûs stie inkeld de skoarstien noch,
As in stamper dy’t syn bledsjes mist.

Ek de skuorre oarekant de wei
Soe proai west hawwe fan de brân
As de wyn dat wold hie, mar bleau oer,
Oars hie it stee gjin namme mear hân.

Hy gie nea wer iepen, waach en wiid,
Foar hynder-en-wein, foar it gejacht
– Dy hoefslaggen op de skuorrereed –
Om gollen te foljen mei simmerfracht.

De fûgels dy’t kamen, fleagen no
Troch brutsen finsters út en yn.
Sy tsjirpten sa’t wy suchtsje, de sucht
Fan hingjen bliuwe yn tiden lyn.

Mar foar harren grienen wer de sering
En de âlde yp, hoe skroeid dy ek wie;
De pomp stuts in kromme earm omheech
En de hikkepeal droech in eintsje trie.

Echt, foar harren wie neat treurich dêr.
Mar al hienen sy in nust dat befoel,
Men moast plattelânsdingen rymje kinne
En leau net, der hawwe swellen gûld.

 

The Need of Being Versed in Country Things

The house had gone to bring again
To the midnight sky a sunset glow.
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.

The barn opposed across the way,
That would have joined the house in flame
Had it been the will of the wind, was left
To bear forsaken the place’s name.

No more it opened with all one end
For teams that came by the stony road
To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs
And brush the mow with the summer load.

The birds that came to it through the air
At broken windows flew out and in,
Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh
From too much dwelling on what has been.

Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,
And the aged elm, though touched with fire;
And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm;
And the fence post carried a strand of wire.

For them there was really nothing sad.
But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept,
One had to be versed in country things
Not to believe the phoebes wept.

 

Ut New Hampshire, 1923

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