ROBERT FROST

• born San Francico March 26, 1874.
• dad journalist paper

GOING FOR WATER

The well was dry beside the door, and so we went with pail and can Across the fields behind the house to seek the brook if it still ran;

Not loth to have excuse to go, Because the autumn eve was fair(Though chill), because the fields were ours, And by brook our woods were there.

We ran as if to meet the moon That slowly danced behind the trees, The barren boughs without the leaves, Without the birds, without the breeze,

But once within the wood, we paused Like gnomes that hid us from the moon Ready to run hiding new,
With laughter when she found us soon

A note from a single place, A slender tinkling fall that made Now drops that floated on the pool Like, and now a sliver blade