This has been one of my favorite poems since I first read it in high school (much thanks to the wonderful Sean Burrus for sharing this and many other poems with me). Recently, the last stanza has been on my mind a lot; there are many finalities in life that I've been mulling over.
I post this here for the Second Annual Brigid in Cyberspace Poetry Reading, which I heard about from AntSaint.
The Impulse, by Robert Frost
It was too lonely for her there,
And too wild,
And since there were but two of them,
And no child,
And work was little in the house,
She was free,
And followed where he furrowed field,
Or felled tree.
She rested on a log and tossed
The fresh chips,
With a song only to herself
On her lips.
And once she went to break a bough
Of black alder.
She strayed so far she scarcely heard
When he called her —
And didn't answer — didn't speak —
Or return.
She stood, and then she ran and hid
In the fern.
He never found her, though he looked
Everywhere,
And he asked at her mother's house
Was she there.
Sudden and swift and light as that
The ties gave,
And he learned of finalities
Besides the grave.