Small Song
by Frances Frost
Morning is a little lass,
Her gay head yellow-curled,
Who jumps a rope of knotted flowers
Across the waking world.
Evening is a little boy
With dark wind-ruffled hair,
Who skips the stars like stones across
The darkling pond of air.
((If you have any further questions, would like to make a suggestion for a future poem/topic of discussion, or would like a deeper analysis of this poem, please inform me by leaving a comment below. I will address any and all comments in the order they are received, as quickly as I can.))
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