A Blue Ribbon at Amesbury by Robert Frost
Such a fine pullet ought to go
All coiffured to a winter show
And be exhibited, and win
The answer to this one has been--
And come with all her honors home,
Her golden leg, her coral comb,
Her fluff of plumage, white as chalk,
Her style, were all the fancy's talk.
It seems as if you must have heard,
She scored an almost perfect bird,
In her we make ourselves acquainted,
With one a Sewell might have painted.
Here common with the flock again,
At home in her abiding pen,
She lingers feeding at the trough,
The last to let night drive her off.
The one who gave her ankle-band,
Her keeper, empty pail in hand,
He lingers too, averse to slight,
His chores for all the wintry night.
He leans against the dusty wall,
Immured almost beyond recall,
A depth past many swinging doors,
And many litter-muffled floors.
He meditates the breeders art.
He has half a mind to start,
With her for Mother Eve, a race
That shall all living things displace.
'Tis ritual for her to lay
The full six days, then rest a day;
At which rate barring broodiness,
She may well score an egg success.
The gatherer can always tell
Her well-turned egg's brown shapely shell,
As safe a vehicle of seed
As is vouchsafed to feathered breed.
No human specter at the feast
Can scant or hurry her the least.
She takes her time to take her fill,
She whets a sleepy sated bill.
She gropes across the pen alone,
To peck herself a precious stone.
She waters at the patent fount
And so to roost, the last to mount.
The roost is her extent of flight,
Yet once she rises to the height,
She shoulders with a wing so strong,
She makes the whole flock move along.
The night is setting in to blow,
It scours the windowpane with snow,
But barely gets from them or her,
For comment a complacent chirr.
The lowly pen is yet a hold,
Against the dark and wind and cold
To give a prospect to a plan,
And warrant prudence in a man.
I love this poem...
