A mountain poem with an original slant, as befits its author, the New England master Robert Frost.

TIME OUT

It took that pause to make him realise

The mountain he was climbing had the slant

As of a book held up before his eyes

(And was a text albeit it done on plant).

Dwarf cornel, goldthread, and Maianthemum,

He followingly fingered as he read,

The flowers fading on the seed to come;

But the thing was the slope it gave his head:

The same for reading as it was for thought,

So different from the hard and level stare

Of enemies defied and battles fought.

It was the obstinately gentle air

That may be clamoured at by cause and sect,

But it will have its moment to reflect.