After apple-picking: Autumn with Robert Frost
Vermont’s vaunted maples have begun to flush crimson, but the oaks stubbornly cling to their sturdy green. By Robert Frost’s hillside grave, in Bennington’s Old First Churchyard, the birch trees have breathed in autumn and exhaled it as goldenrod. These calico mountains, having abandoned most of the “Green” of their namesake, could not make a…