“Nothing New” was written by Robert Frost in 1918 and was published for the first time in The New Yorker’s Anniversary Issue.

More than 62 years after Frost died.

It’s not my favorite Robert Frost poem, but what a delight to receive something from one of our greatest American poets long after he scribbled his last line.

I have an unpublished book of poetry — mainly because no one was clamoring for it and poetry isn’t exactly awash in money —  so in the unlikely event that I die someday, please feel free to drip those poems out — one at a time — every decade or so, to keep my publishing career alive, too.

Nothing New

By Robert Frost
Amherst 1918

One moment when the dust to-day
Against my face was turned to spray,
I dreamed the winter dream again
I dreamed when I was young at play,
Yet strangely not more sad than then—
Nothing new—
Though I am further upon my way
The same dream again.