Robert Frost, the New England master, turns the banal circumstances of driving into a visionary reflection on movement and rest, and universal colours.

THE MIDDLENESS OF THE ROAD

The road at the top of the rise

Seems to come to an end

And take off into the skies.

So at the distant bend

It seems to go into a wood,

The place of standing still

As long the trees have stood.

But say what Fancy will,

The mineral drops that explode

To drive my ton of car

Are limited to the road.

They deal with near and far,

But have almost nothing to do

With the absolute flight and rest

The universal blue

And local green suggest.