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Robert Frost · Collected Poems

Poem 157 of 164 · West-Running Brook

Dust in the Eyes

— ✻ —

If, as they say, some dust thrown in my eyes
Will keep my talk from getting overwise,
I’m not the one for putting off the proof.
Let it be overwhelming, off a roof
And round a corner, blizzard snow for dust,
And blind me to a standstill if it must.

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