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In front of twenty others' wriggling speed,—In the confusion of them all aglitterAnd birds that joined in the excited funBy doubling and redoubling song and twitter,I have no doubt I'd end by. holding none.It takes the moon for this. The sun's a wizardBy all I tell; but so's the moon a witch.From the high west she makes a gentle castAnd suddenly without a jerk or twitchShe has her spell on every single lizard.I fancied when I looked at eight o'clockThe swarm still ran and scuttled just as fast.The moon was waiting for her chill effect.I looked at ten: the swarm was turned to rockIn every life-like posture of the swarm,Transfixed on mountain slopes almost erect.Across each other and side by side they lay.The spell that so could hold them as they wereWas wrought through trees without a breath of stormTo make a leaf, if there had been one, stir.It was the moon's, She held them until one day,One lizard at the end of every ray.The thought of my attempting such a stay!
The New RepublicRobert Frost


MISGIVING
All crying, "We will go with you, O Wind," The foliage follow him, leaf and stem,But a sleep oppresses them as they go, And they end by bidding him stay with them.
Since ever they flung abroad in spring, The leaves have promised themselves this flight,Who now would fain seek sheltering wall, Or thicket, or hollow place for the night.

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