by Marshall Jamison
At about ten years of age or so, I heard Robert Frost
recite his poetry aloud
for what, it seemed to me to be a most attentive
and respectful crowd
in Harvard Yard, a meeting place of those who
search for knowledge,
the brick-lined mecca that surrounds much of
He read quickly without emphasis that might
have been revealing
and his words belied emotion which I thought
he must be feeling.
When he finished his last bucolic rhyme,
something about a sick cow in Appletime
that ate his apples, which it seemed were green!
I recall that he shivered, bowed quickly
and hastily left the scene,
to be recognized later as the poet sublime,
dreamer, doer, the complete Master
of Meter and of Rhyme.
Author’s Note: My father, an English professor, took me to Harvard Yard that day. I’m now very grateful.