August Poetry

The Pasture 
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring; 
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
 (And wait to watch the water clear, I may): 
I shan't be gone long.—You come too. 

I'm going out to fetch the little calf 
That's standing by the mother.  It's so young 
It totters when she licks it with her tongue. 
I shan't be gone long.—You come too. 

Robert Frost, 1913