Frost

Though nothing came that could be heard
Green turned yellow—and from no drouth
In my cornfield; and the last blackbird
Has swallowed his notes and drifted south.

If the change is death, then the color and all
Of blood in the leaves, of smoke in the sky,
Has deceived me with beauty; I heard no call
Of roots to the sap and no answering cry.

It is time, then, for me to walk alone,
To watch leaves fall, while thought runs slow
On the stubborn permanence found in stone,
On the sharp bright virtue of the plow.