STARS

 
How countlessly they congregate
    O’er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
    When wintry winds do blow!–

As if with keeness for our fate,
    Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
    Invisible at dawn,–

And yet with neither love nor hate,
    Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva’s snow-white marble eyes
    Without the gift of sight.

 
By Robert Frost 
Lovely!
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