About Robert
Frost
Robert Frost was
born in San Francisco California, on March 26, 1874 to William Prescott Frost,
Jr., a former teacher and journalist and was
later an editor of the San Francisco Evening Bulletin and Isabelle
Moodie. The Frost family had arrived in New Hampshire from Devon England in
1634.
After his
father’s death of tuberculosis on May 5, 1885 when Frost was 11 (He left the
family with just eight dollars.) the Frost family moved to Lawrence,
Massachusetts, where Robert's grandfather, William Frost, Sr., ran a mill.
Frost graduated from Lawrence High School in 1892. (He published his first poem in his high
school's magazine.)
He went on to Dartmouth College for two months
but returned home to teach school. However, the young poet also held down a
number of other jobs as well, including newspaper delivery, factory worker and
carbon filament changer, all the while honing his skills as a poet. In 1894 he
sold his first poem, "My Butterfly. An Elegy" to the New York
Independent for $15 (Which would amount to several hundred dollars today)
The young scribe
then proposed marriage to Elinor Miriam White, but she declined, wisely,
wishing to finish college at St. Lawrence University before they married.
Frost asked her once more before she
accepted (after she graduated) and the two were married in Lawrence,
Massachusetts on December 19, 1895.
The couple would
have six children, son Elliot would die of cholera in 1904. Daughter Lesley
died in 1983, son Carol committed suicide in 1940, daughter Irma died in 1967,
daughter Marjorie died in 1934 as a result of puerperal fever after childbirth
and daughter Elinor Bettina died just three days after her birth in 1907. Only
Lesley and Irma outlived their father. Frost's wife, who had heart problems
throughout her life, developed breast cancer in 1937, and died of heart failure
in 1938.
Frost attended
Harvard University but left in 1899 due to illness. It was around that time, that Robert's
grandfather purchased a farm for Robert and Elinor in Derry, New Hampshire (The
grandfather died shortly afterwards)
Frost worked the
farm for nine years, writing early in the mornings and working the land during
the rest of the day. It was a productive time for him and most of his better
known poems were written during this period of his life.
In 1906 (His
mother died of cancer in 1900.) Frost
left the back breaking life of farmer to teach English at the prestigious New
Hampshire Pinkerton Academy from 1906 to 1911, then at the New Hampshire Normal
School (now Plymouth State University) in Plymouth, New Hampshire.
In 1912 Frost
settled in England, in Beaconsfield, a small town outside London and a year
later, in 1913, his first book of poetry, A Boy's Will, was published and in
1914 he followed up with second book, North of Boston. Also while in England,
Frost met many of the leading writers and poets of his day including Edward
Thomas , T.E. Hulme, and Ezra Pound.
Frost returned
to America in 1915, the inset of World War One and bought a farm in Franconia,
New Hampshire, where he settled back into his writing-teaching career. The
family would live there until 1938. (Today the farm is maintained as The Frost
Place, a museum and poetry conference site.)
In 1920, Frost,
who suffered from severe depression as his mother did, was forced to commit his
younger sister Jeanie to a mental hospital, where she died nine years later.
Later, in 1947, Frost’s daughter Irma was committed to a mental hospital in
1947 and his wife also suffered bouts of depression as well.
The year 1924
sounded a brighter note , Frost was awarded the first of four Pulitzer Prizes
for the book New Hampshire: A Poem with Notes and Grace Notes. He would win
additional Pulitzers for Collected Poems in 1931, A Further Range in 1937, and
A Witness Tree in 1943.
At age 86, Frost
read his poem "The Gift Outright" at the inauguration of President
John F. Kennedy on January 20, 1961. He died in Boston two years later, on
January 29, 1963, of complications from surgery. He is buried at the Old
Bennington Cemetery in Bennington, Vermont. His epitaph quotes the last line
from his poem, "The Lesson for Today (1942): "I had a lover's quarrel
with the world."
FIRE AND ICE
Some say the
world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've
tasted of desire
I hold with
those who favor fire.
But if it had to
perish twice,
I think I know
enough of hate
To know that for
destruction ice
Is also great,
And would
suffice.
________________________________________
STOPPING BY A
WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in
the village though;
He will not see
me stopping here
To watch his
woods fill up with snow.
My little horse
must think it queer
To stop without
a farmhouse near
Between the
woods and frozen lake
The darkest
evening of the year.
He gives his
harness bells a shake
To ask if there
is some mistake.
The only other
sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and
downy flake.
The woods are
lovely, dark and deep.
But I have
promises to keep,
And miles to go
before I sleep,
And miles to go
before I sleep.
________________________________________
THE ROAD NOT
TAKEN
Two roads
diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I
could not travel both
And be one
traveler, long I stood
And looked down
one as far as I could
To where it bent
in the undergrowth;
Then took the
other, as just as fair,
And having
perhaps the better claim,
Because it was
grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for
that the passing there
Had worn them
really about the same,
And both that
morning equally lay
In leaves no
step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the
first for another day!
Yet knowing how
way leads on to way,
I doubted if I
should ever come back.
I shall be
telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages
and ages hence:
Two roads
diverged in a wood, and I––
I took the one
less traveled by,
And that has
made all the difference.
________________________________________
NOTHING GOLD CAN
STAY
Nature's first
green is gold,
Her hardest hue
to hold.
Her early leaf's
a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf
subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes
down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
________________________________________
CARPE DIEM
Age saw two
quiet children
Go loving by at
twilight,
He knew not
whether homeward,
Or outward from
the village,
Or (chimes were
ringing) churchward,
He waited, (they
were strangers)
Till they were
out of hearing
To bid them both
be happy.
"Be happy,
happy, happy,
And seize the
day of pleasure."
The age-long
theme is Age's.
'Twas Age
imposed on poems
Their
gather-roses burden
To warn against
the danger
That overtaken
lovers
From being
overflooded
With happiness
should have it.
And yet not know
they have it.
But bid life
seize the present?
It lives less in
the present
Than in the
future always,
And less in both
together
Than in the
past. The present
Is too much for
the senses,
Too crowding,
too confusing-
Too present to
imagine
________________________________________
BIRCHES
WHEN I see
birches bend to left and right
Across the lines
of straighter darker trees,
I like to think
some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging
doesn’t bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do
that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice
a sunny winter morning
After a rain.
They click upon themselves
As the breeze
rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir
cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s
warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and
avalanching on the snow-crust––
Such heaps of
broken glass to sweep away
You’d think the
inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged
to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem
not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long,
they never right themselves:
You may see
their trunks arching in the woods
Years
afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on
hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over
their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going
to say when Truth broke in
With all her
matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free
to be poetical?)
I should prefer
to have some boy bend them
As he went out
and in to fetch the cows––
Some boy too far
from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play
was what he found himself,
Summer or
winter, and could play alone.
One by one he
subdued his father’s trees
By riding them
down over and over again
Until he took
the stiffness out of them,
And not one but
hung limp, not one was left
For him to
conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about
not launching out too soon
And so not
carrying the tree away
Clear to the
ground. He always kept his poise
To the top
branches, climbing carefully
With the same
pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim,
and even above the brim.
Then he flung
outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way
down through the air to the ground.
So was I once
myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream
of going back to be.
It’s when I’m
weary of considerations,
And life is too
much like a pathless wood
Where your face
burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across
it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s
having lashed across it open.
I’d like to get
away from earth awhile
And then come
back to it and begin over.
May no fate
willfully misunderstand me
And half grant
what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return.
Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know
where it’s likely to go better.
I’d like to go
by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black
branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven,
till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its
top and set me down again.
That would be
good both going and coming back.
One could do
worse than be a swinger of birches.
________________________________________
THE PASTURE
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop
to rake the leaves away
(And wait to
watch the water clear, I may):
I shan't be gone
long. -- You come too.
I'm going out to
fetch the little calf
That's standing
by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when
she licks it with her tongue.
I shan't be gone
long. -- You come too
MENDING
WALL
SOMETHING there
is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the
frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the
upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps
even two can pass abreast.
The work of
hunters is another thing:
I have come after
them and made repair
Where they have
left not one stone on a stone,
But they would
have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the
yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen
them made or heard them made,
But at spring
mending-time we find them there.
I let my
neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we
meet to walk the line
And set the wall
between us once again.
We keep the wall
between us as we go.
To each the
boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are
loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a
spell to make them balance:
"Stay where
you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our
fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another
kind of out-door game,
One on a side.
It comes to little more:
There where it
is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine
and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees
will never get across
And eat the
cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says,
"Good fences make good neighbours."
Spring is the
mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a
notion in his head:
"Why do
they make good neighbours? Isn't it
Where there are
cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a
wall I'd ask to know
What I was
walling in or walling out,
And to whom I
was like to give offence.
Something there
is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it
down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not
elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for
himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone
grasped firmly by the top
In each hand,
like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in
darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods
only and the shade of trees.
He will not go
behind his father's saying,
And he likes
having thought of it so well
He says again,
"Good fences make good neighbours."
________________________________________
THE DEATH OFA
HIRED MAN
MARY sat musing
on the lamp-flame at the table
Waiting for
Warren. When she heard his step,
She ran on
tip-toe down the darkened passage
To meet him in
the doorway with the news
And put him on
his guard. "Silas is back."
She pushed him
outward with her through the door
And shut it
after her. "Be kind," she said.
She took the
market things from Warren's arms
And set them on
the porch, then drew him down
To sit beside
her on the wooden steps.
"When was I
ever anything but kind to him?
But I'll not
have the fellow back," he said.
"I told him
so last haying, didn't I?
'If he left
then,' I said, 'that ended it.'
What good is he?
Who else will harbour him
At his age for
the little he can do?
What help he is
there's no depending on.
Off he goes
always when I need him most.
'He thinks he
ought to earn a little pay,
Enough at least
to buy tobacco with,
So he won't have
to beg and be beholden.'
'All right,' I
say, 'I can't afford to pay
Any fixed wages,
though I wish I could.'
'Someone else
can.' 'Then someone else will have to.'
I shouldn't mind
his bettering himself
If that was what
it was. You can be certain,
When he begins
like that, there's someone at him
Trying to coax
him off with pocket-money,—
In haying time,
when any help is scarce.
In winter he
comes back to us. I'm done."
"Sh! not so
loud: he'll hear you," Mary said.
"I want him
to: he'll have to soon or late."
"He's worn
out. He's asleep beside the stove.
When I came up
from Rowe's I found him here,
Huddled against
the barn-door fast asleep,
A miserable
sight, and frightening, too—
You needn't
smile—I didn't recognise him—
I wasn't looking
for him—and he's changed.
Wait till you
see."
"Where did
you say he'd been?"
"He didn't
say. I dragged him to the house,
And gave him tea
and tried to make him smoke.
I tried to make
him talk about his travels.
Nothing would
do: he just kept nodding off."
"What did
he say? Did he say anything?"
"But
little."
"Anything?
Mary, confess
He said he'd
come to ditch the meadow for me."
"Warren!"
"But did
he? I just want to know."
"Of course
he did. What would you have him say?
Surely you
wouldn't grudge the poor old man
Some humble way
to save his self-respect.
He added, if you
really care to know,
He meant to
clear the upper pasture, too.
That sounds like
something you have heard before?
Warren, I wish
you could have heard the way
He jumbled
everything. I stopped to look
Two or three
times—he made me feel so queer—
To see if he was
talking in his sleep.
He ran on Harold
Wilson—you remember—
The boy you had
in haying four years since.
He's finished
school, and teaching in his college.
Silas declares
you'll have to get him back.
He says they two
will make a team for work:
Between them
they will lay this farm as smooth!
The way he mixed
that in with other things.
He thinks young
Wilson a likely lad, though daft
On education—you
know how they fought
All through July
under the blazing sun,
Silas up on the
cart to build the load,
Harold along
beside to pitch it on."
"Yes, I
took care to keep well out of earshot."
"Well,
those days trouble Silas like a dream.
You wouldn't
think they would. How some things linger!
Harold's young
college boy's assurance piqued him.
After so many
years he still keeps finding
Good arguments
he sees he might have used.
I sympathise. I
know just how it feels
To think of the
right thing to say too late.
Harold's
associated in his mind with Latin.
He asked me what
I thought of Harold's saying
He studied Latin
like the violin
Because he liked
it—that an argument!
He said he
couldn't make the boy believe
He could find
water with a hazel prong—
Which showed how
much good school had ever done him.
He wanted to go
over that. But most of all
He thinks if he
could have another chance
To teach him how
to build a load of hay——"
"I know,
that's Silas' one accomplishment.
He bundles every
forkful in its place,
And tags and
numbers it for future reference,
So he can find
and easily dislodge it
In the
unloading. Silas does that well.
He takes it out
in bunches like big birds' nests.
You never see
him standing on the hay
He's trying to
lift, straining to lift himself."
"He thinks
if he could teach him that, he'd be
Some good
perhaps to someone in the world.
He hates to see
a boy the fool of books.
Poor Silas, so
concerned for other folk,
And nothing to
look backward to with pride,
And nothing to
look forward to with hope,
So now and never
any different."
Part of a moon
was falling down the west,
Dragging the
whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light poured
softly in her lap. She saw
And spread her
apron to it. She put out her hand
Among the
harp-like morning-glory strings,
Taut with the
dew from garden bed to eaves,
As if she played
unheard the tenderness
That wrought on
him beside her in the night.
"Warren,"
she said, "he has come home to die:
You needn't be
afraid he'll leave you this time."
"Home,"
he mocked gently.
"Yes, what
else but home?
It all depends
on what you mean by home.
Of course he's
nothing to us, any more
Than was the
hound that came a stranger to us
Out of the
woods, worn out upon the trail."
"Home is
the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to
take you in."
"I should
have called it
Something you
somehow haven't to deserve."
Warren leaned
out and took a step or two,
Picked up a
little stick, and brought it back
And broke it in
his hand and tossed it by.
"Silas has
better claim on us you think
Than on his
brother? Thirteen little miles
As the road
winds would bring him to his door.
Silas has walked
that far no doubt to-day.
Why didn't he go
there? His brother's rich,
A
somebody—director in the bank."
"He never
told us that."
"We know it
though."
"I think
his brother ought to help, of course.
I'll see to that
if there is need. He ought of right
To take him in,
and might be willing to—
He may be better
than appearances.
But have some
pity on Silas. Do you think
If he'd had any
pride in claiming kin
Or anything he
looked for from his brother,
He'd keep so
still about him all this time?"
"I wonder
what's between them."
"I can tell
you.
Silas is what he
is—we wouldn't mind him—
But just the
kind that kinsfolk can't abide.
He never did a
thing so very bad.
He don't know
why he isn't quite as good
As anyone. He
won't be made ashamed
To please his
brother, worthless though he is."
"I can't
think Si ever hurt anyone."
"No, but he
hurt my heart the way he lay
And rolled his
old head on that sharp-edged chair-back.
He wouldn't let
me put him on the lounge.
You must go in
and see what you can do.
I made the bed
up for him there to-night.
You'll be
surprised at him—how much he's broken.
His working days
are done; I'm sure of it."
"I'd not be
in a hurry to say that."
"I haven't
been. Go, look, see for yourself.
But, Warren,
please remember how it is:
He's come to
help you ditch the meadow.
He has a plan.
You mustn't laugh at him.
He may not speak
of it, and then he may.
I'll sit and see
if that small sailing cloud
Will hit or miss
the moon."
It hit the moon.
Then there were
three there, making a dim row,
The moon, the
little silver cloud, and she.
Warren
returned—too soon, it seemed to her,
Slipped to her
side, caught up her hand and waited.
"Warren,"
she questioned.
"Dead,"
was all he answered.
________________________________________
AFTER APPLE
PICKING
MY long
two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven
still,
And there's a
barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and
there may be two or three
Apples I didn't
pick upon some bough.
But I am done
with apple-picking now.
Essence of
winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of
apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the
strangeness from my sight
I got from
looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this
morning from the drinking trough
And held against
the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I
let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to
sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my
dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples
appear and disappear,
Stem end and
blossom end,
And every fleck
of russet showing clear.
My instep arch
not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the
pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the
ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep
hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling
sound
Of load on load
of apples coming in.
For I have had
too much
Of apple-picking:
I am overtired
Of the great
harvest I myself desired.
There were ten
thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand,
lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the
earth,
No matter if not
bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to
the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what
will trouble
This sleep of
mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not
gone,
The woodchuck
could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I
describe its coming on,
Or just some
human sleep.
________________________________________
THE GRINDSTONE
Having a wheel
and four legs of its own
Has never
availed the cumbersome grindstone
To get it
anywhere that I can see.
These hands have
helped it go and even race;
Not all the
motion, though, they ever lent,
Not all the
miles it may have thought it went,
Have got it one
step from the starting place.
It stands beside
the same old apple tree.
The shadow of
the apple tree is thin
Upon it now; its
feet are fast in snow.
All other farm
machinery's gone in,
And some of it
on no more legs and wheel
Than the
grindstone can boast to stand or go.
(I'm thinking
chiefly of the wheelbarrow.)
For months it
hasn't known the taste of steel,
Washed down with
rusty water in a tin.
But standing
outdoors, hungry, in the cold,
Except in towns,
at night, is not a sin.
And, anyway, its
standing in the yard
Under a ruinous
live apple tree
Has nothing any
more to do with me,
Except that I
remember how of old,
One summer day,
all day I drove it hard,
And some one
mounted on it rode it hard,
And he and I
between us ground a blade.
I gave it the
preliminary spin,
And poured on
water (tears it might have been);
And when it
almost gayly jumped and flowed,
A
Father-Time-like man got on and rode,
Armed with a
scythe and spectacles that glowed.
He turned on
will-power to increase the load
And slow me
down--and I abruptly slowed,
Like coming to a
sudden railroad station.
I changed from
hand to hand in desperation.
I wondered what
machine of ages gone
This represented
an improvement on.
For all I knew
it may have sharpened spears
And arrowheads
itself. Much use for years
Had gradually
worn it an oblate
Spheroid that
kicked and struggled in its gait,
Appearing to
return me hate for hate.
(But I forgive
it now as easily
As any other
boyhood enemy
Whose pride has
failed to get him anywhere.)
I wondered who
it was the man thought ground--
The one who held
the wheel back or the one
Who gave his
life to keep it going round?
I wondered if he
really thought it fair
For him to have
the say when we were done.
Such were the
bitter thoughts to which I turned.
Not for myself
was I so much concerned.
Oh,
no!--although, of course, I could have found
A better way to
pass the afternoon
Than grinding
discord out of a grindstone,
And beating
insects at their gritty tune.
Nor was I for
the man so much concerned.
Once when the
grindstone almost jumped its bearing
It looked as if
he might be badly thrown
And wounded on
his blade. So far from caring,
I laughed
inside, and only cranked the faster,
(It ran as if it
wasn't greased but glued);
I welcomed any
moderate disaster
That might be
calculated to postpone
What evidently
nothing could conclude.
The thing that
made me more and more afraid
Was that we'd
ground it sharp and hadn't known,
And now were
only wasting precious blade.
And when he
raised it dripping once and tried
The creepy edge
of it with wary touch,
And viewed it
over his glasses funny-eyed,
Only
disinterestedly to decide
It needed a turn
more, I could have cried
Wasn't there
danger of a turn too much?
Mightn't we make
it worse instead of better?
I was for
leaving something to the whetter.
What if it
wasn't all it should be? I'd
Be satisfied if
he'd be satisfied.
________________________________________
THE WITCH OF
COOS
I staid the
night for shelter at a farm
Behind the
mountain, with a mother and son,
Two
old-believers. They did all the talking.
_The Mother_
Folks think a
witch who has familiar spirits
She _could_ call
up to pass a winter evening,
But _won't_,
should be burned at the stake or something.
Summoning
spirits isn't "Button, button,
Who's got the
button?" I'd have you understand.
_The Son_
Mother can make
a common table rear
And kick with
two legs like an army mule.
_The Mother_
And when I've
done it, what good have I done?
Rather than tip
a table for you, let me
Tell you what
Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.
He said the dead
had souls, but when I asked him
How that could
be--I thought the dead were souls,
He broke my
trance. Don't that make you suspicious
That there's
something the dead are keeping back?
Yes, there's
something the dead are keeping back.
_The Son_
You wouldn't
want to tell him what we have
Up attic, mother?
_The Mother_
Bones--a
skeleton.
_The Son_
But the
headboard of mother's bed is pushed
Against the
attic door: the door is nailed.
It's harmless.
Mother hears it in the night
Halting
perplexed behind the barrier
Of door and
headboard. Where it wants to get
Is back into the
cellar where it came from.
_The Mother_
We'll never let
them, will we, son? We'll never!
_The Son_
It left the
cellar forty years ago
And carried
itself like a pile of dishes
Up one flight
from the cellar to the kitchen,
Another from the
kitchen to the bedroom,
Another from the
bedroom to the attic,
Right past both
father and mother, and neither stopped it.
Father had gone
upstairs; mother was downstairs.
I was a baby: I
don't know where I was.
_The Mother_
The only fault
my husband found with me--
I went to sleep
before I went to bed,
Especially in
winter when the bed
Might just as
well be ice and the clothes snow.
The night the
bones came up the cellar-stairs
Toffile had gone
to bed alone and left me,
But left an open
door to cool the room off
So as to sort of
turn me out of it.
I was just
coming to myself enough
To wonder where
the cold was coming from,
When I heard
Toffile upstairs in the bedroom
And thought I
heard him downstairs in the cellar.
The board we had
laid down to walk dry-shod on
When there was
water in the cellar in spring
Struck the hard
cellar bottom. And then some one
Began the
stairs, two footsteps for each step,
The way a man
with one leg and a crutch,
Or little child,
comes up. It wasn't Toffile:
It wasn't any
one who could be there.
The bulkhead
double-doors were double-locked
And swollen
tight and buried under snow.
The cellar
windows were banked up with sawdust
And swollen
tight and buried under snow.
It was the
bones. I knew them--and good reason.
My first impulse
was to get to the knob
And hold the
door. But the bones didn't try
The door; they
halted helpless on the landing,
Waiting for
things to happen in their favor.
The faintest
restless rustling ran all through them.
I never could
have done the thing I did
If the wish
hadn't been too strong in me
To see how they
were mounted for this walk.
I had a vision
of them put together
Not like a man,
but like a chandelier.
So suddenly I
flung the door wide on him.
A moment he
stood balancing with emotion,
And all but lost
himself. (A tongue of fire
Flashed out and
licked along his upper teeth.
Smoke rolled
inside the sockets of his eyes.)
Then he came at
me with one hand outstretched,
The way he did
in life once; but this time
I struck the
hand off brittle on the floor,
And fell back
from him on the floor myself.
The
finger-pieces slid in all directions.
(Where did I see
one of those pieces lately?
Hand me my
button-box--it must be there.)
I sat up on the
floor and shouted, "Toffile,
It's coming up
to you." It had its choice
Of the door to
the cellar or the hall.
It took the hall
door for the novelty,
And set off
briskly for so slow a thing,
Still going
every which way in the joints, though,
So that it
looked like lightning or a scribble,
From the slap I
had just now given its hand.
I listened till
it almost climbed the stairs
From the hall to
the only finished bedroom,
Before I got up
to do anything;
Then ran and
shouted, "Shut the bedroom door,
Toffile, for my
sake!" "Company," he said,
"Don't make
me get up; I'm too warm in bed."
So lying forward
weakly on the handrail
I pushed myself
upstairs, and in the light
(The kitchen had
been dark) I had to own
I could see
nothing. "Toffile, I don't see it.
It's with us in
the room, though. It's the bones."
"What
bones?" "The cellar bones--out of the grave."
* *
* * *
That made him
throw his bare legs out of bed
And sit up by me
and take hold of me.
I wanted to put
out the light and see
If I could see
it, or else mow the room,
With our arms at
the level of our knees,
And bring the
chalk-pile down. "I'll tell you what--
It's looking for
another door to try.
The uncommonly
deep snow has made him think
Of his old song,
_The Wild Colonial Boy_,
He always used
to sing along the tote-road.
He's after an
open door to get out-doors.
Let's trap him
with an open door up attic."
Toffile agreed
to that, and sure enough,
Almost the
moment he was given an opening,
The steps began
to climb the attic stairs.
I heard them.
Toffile didn't seem to hear them.
"Quick!"
I slammed to the door and held the knob.
"Toffile,
get nails." I made him nail the door shut,
And push the
headboard of the bed against it.
Then we asked
was there anything
Up attic that
we'd ever want again.
The attic was
less to us than the cellar.
If the bones
liked the attic, let them like it,
Let them _stay_
in the attic. When they sometimes
Come down the
stairs at night and stand perplexed
Behind the door
and headboard of the bed,
Brushing their
chalky skull with chalky fingers,
With sounds like
the dry rattling of a shutter,
That's what I
sit up in the dark to say--
To no one any
more since Toffile died.
Let them stay in
the attic since they went there.
I promised
Toffile to be cruel to them
For helping them
be cruel once to him.
_The Son_
We think they
had a grave down in the cellar.
_The Mother_
We know they had
a grave down in the cellar.
_The Son_
We never could
find out whose bones they were.
_The Mother_
Yes, we could
too, son. Tell the truth for once.
They were a
man's his father killed for me.
I mean a man he
killed instead of me.
The least I
could do was to help dig their grave.
We were about it
one night in the cellar.
Son knows the
story: but 'twas not for him
To tell the
truth, suppose the time had come.
Son looks
surprised to see me end a lie
We'd kept up all
these years between ourselves
So as to have it
ready for outsiders.
But to-night I
don't care enough to lie--
I don't remember
why I ever cared.
Toffile, if he
were here, I don't believe
Could tell you
why he ever cared himself....
She hadn't found
the finger-bone she wanted
Among the
buttons poured out in her lap.
I verified the
name next morning: Toffile;
The rural
letter-box said Toffile Lajway.
________________________________________
A BROOK IN THE
CITY
The farm house
lingers, though averse to square
With the new
city street it has to wear
A number in. But
what about the brook
That held the
house as in an elbow-crook?
I ask as one who
knew the brook, its strength
And impulse,
having dipped a finger-length
And made it leap
my knuckle, having tossed
A flower to try
its currents where they crossed.
The meadow grass
could be cemented down
From growing
under pavements of a town;
The apple trees
be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to
serve a brook the same?
How else dispose
of an immortal force
No longer
needed? Staunch it at its source
With cinder
loads dumped down? The brook was thrown
Deep in a sewer
dungeon under stone
In fetid
darkness still to live and run--
And all for
nothing it had ever done
Except forget to
go in fear perhaps.
No one would
know except for ancient maps
That such a
brook ran water. But I wonder
If, from its
being kept forever under,
These thoughts
may not have risen that so keep
This new-built
city from both work and sleep.
________________________________________
DESIGN
I found a
dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white
heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white
piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted
characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to
begin the morning right,
Like the
ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop
spider, a flower like froth,
And dead wings
carried like a paper kite.
What had that
flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue
and innocent heal-all?
What brought the
kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the
white moth thither in the night?
What but design
of darkness to appal?--
If design govern
in a thing so small.
________________________________________
GOOD HOURS
I HAD for my
winter evening walk—
No one at all
with whom to talk,
But I had the
cottages in a row
Up to their
shining eyes in snow.
And I thought I
had the folk within:
I had the sound
of a violin;
I had a glimpse
through curtain laces
Of youthful
forms and youthful faces.
I had such
company outward bound.
I went till there
were no cottages found.
I turned and
repented, but coming back
I saw no window
but that was black.
Over the snow my
creaking feet
Disturbed the
slumbering village street
Like
profanation, by your leave,
At ten o'clock
of a winter eve.
________________________________________
A CONSIDERABLE
SPECK
(Microscopic)
A speck that
would have been beneath my sight
On any but a
paper sheet so white
Set off across
what I had written there.
And I had idly
poised my pen in air
To stop it with
a period of ink
When something
strange about it made me think,
This was no dust
speck by my breathing blown,
But unmistakably
a living mite
With
inclinations it could call its own.
It paused as
with suspicion of my pen,
And then came
racing wildly on again
To where my
manuscript was not yet dry;
Then paused
again and either drank or smelt--
With loathing,
for again it turned to fly.
Plainly with an
intelligence I dealt.
It seemed too
tiny to have room for feet,
Yet must have
had a set of them complete
To express how
much it didn't want to die.
It ran with
terror and with cunning crept.
It faltered: I
could see it hesitate;
Then in the
middle of the open sheet
Cower down in
desperation to accept
Whatever I
accorded it of fate.
I have none of the
tenderer-than-thou
Collectivistic
regimenting love
With which the
modern world is being swept.
But this poor
microscopic item now!
Since it was
nothing I knew evil of
I let it lie
there till I hope it slept.
I have a mind
myself and recognize
Mind when I meet
with it in any guise
No one can know
how glad I am to find
On any sheet the
least display of mind.
________________________________________
CHOOSE SOMETHING
LIKE A STAR
O Star (the
fairest one in sight),
We grant your
loftiness the right
To some
obscurity of cloud --
It will not do
to say of night,
Since dark is
what brings out your light.
Some mystery
becomes the proud.
But to be wholly
taciturn
In your reserve
is not allowed.
Say something to
us we can learn
By heart and
when alone repeat.
Say something!
And it says "I burn."
But say with
what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit,
talk Centigrade.
Use language we
can comprehend.
Tell us what
elements you blend.
It gives us
strangely little aid,
But does tell
something in the end.
And steadfast as
Keats' Eremite,
Not even
stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little
of us here.
It asks of us a
certain height,
So when at times
the mob is swayed
To carry praise
or blame too far,
We may choose something
like a star
To stay our
minds on and be staid.
________________________________________
DUST OF SNOW
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock
tree
Has given my
heart
A change of mood
And saved some
part
Of a day I had
rued.
________________________________________
HOME BURIAL
He saw her from
the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw
him. She was starting down,
Looking back
over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a
doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself
and look again. He spoke
Advancing toward
her: ‘What is it you see
From up there
always—for I want to know.’
She turned and
sank upon her skirts at that,
And her face
changed from terrified to dull.
He said to gain
time: ‘What is it you see,’
Mounting until
she cowered under him.
‘I will find out
now—you must tell me, dear.’
She, in her
place, refused him any help
With the least
stiffening of her neck and silence.
She let him
look, sure that he wouldn’t see,
Blind creature;
and awhile he didn’t see.
But at last he
murmured, ‘Oh,’ and again, ‘Oh.’
‘What is
it—what?’ she said.
‘Just
that I see.’
‘You don’t,’ she
challenged. ‘Tell me what it is.’
‘The wonder is I
didn’t see at once.
I never noticed
it from here before.
I must be wonted
to it—that’s the reason.
The little
graveyard where my people are!
So small the
window frames the whole of it.
Not so much
larger than a bedroom, is it?
There are three
stones of slate and one of marble,
Broad-shouldered
little slabs there in the sunlight
On the sidehill.
We haven’t to mind those.
But I
understand: it is not the stones,
But the child’s
mound—’
‘Don’t, don’t, don’t,
don’t,’ she cried.
She withdrew
shrinking from beneath his arm
That rested on
the banister, and slid downstairs;
And turned on
him with such a daunting look,
He said twice
over before he knew himself:
‘Can’t a man
speak of his own child he’s lost?’
‘Not you! Oh,
where’s my hat? Oh, I don’t need it!
I must get out
of here. I must get air.
I don’t know
rightly whether any man can.’
‘Amy! Don’t go
to someone else this time.
Listen to me. I
won’t come down the stairs.’
He sat and fixed
his chin between his fists.
‘There’s
something I should like to ask you, dear.’
‘You don’t know
how to ask it.’
‘Help me, then.’
Her fingers
moved the latch for all reply.
‘My words are
nearly always an offense.
I don’t know how
to speak of anything
So as to please
you. But I might be taught
I should
suppose. I can’t say I see how.
A man must
partly give up being a man
With women-folk.
We could have some arrangement
By which I’d
bind myself to keep hands off
Anything special
you’re a-mind to name.
Though I don’t
like such things ’twixt those that love.
Two that don’t
love can’t live together without them.
But two that do
can’t live together with them.’
She moved the
latch a little. ‘Don’t—don’t go.
Don’t carry it to
someone else this time.
Tell me about it
if it’s something human.
Let me into your
grief. I’m not so much
Unlike other
folks as your standing there
Apart would make
me out. Give me my chance.
I do think,
though, you overdo it a little.
What was it
brought you up to think it the thing
To take your
mother-loss of a first child
So
inconsolably—in the face of love.
You’d think his
memory might be satisfied—’
‘There you go
sneering now!’
‘I’m
not, I’m not!
You make me
angry. I’ll come down to you.
God, what a
woman! And it’s come to this,
A man can’t
speak of his own child that’s dead.’
‘You can’t
because you don't know how to speak.
If you had any
feelings, you that dug
With your own
hand—how could you?—his little grave;
I saw you from
that very window there,
Making the
gravel leap and leap in air,
Leap up, like
that, like that, and land so lightly
And roll back
down the mound beside the hole.
I thought, Who
is that man? I didn’t know you.
And I crept down
the stairs and up the stairs
To look again,
and still your spade kept lifting.
Then you came
in. I heard your rumbling voice
Out in the
kitchen, and I don’t know why,
But I went near
to see with my own eyes.
You could sit
there with the stains on your shoes
Of the fresh
earth from your own baby’s grave
And talk about
your everyday concerns.
You had stood
the spade up against the wall
Outside there in
the entry, for I saw it.’
‘I shall laugh
the worst laugh I ever laughed.
I’m cursed. God,
if I don’t believe I’m cursed.’
‘I can repeat
the very words you were saying:
“Three foggy
mornings and one rainy day
Will rot the
best birch fence a man can build.”
Think of it,
talk like that at such a time!
What had how
long it takes a birch to rot
To do with what
was in the darkened parlor?
You couldn’t
care! The nearest friends can go
With anyone to
death, comes so far short
They might as
well not try to go at all.
No, from the
time when one is sick to death,
One is alone,
and he dies more alone.
Friends make
pretense of following to the grave,
But before one
is in it, their minds are turned
And making the
best of their way back to life
And living
people, and things they understand.
But the world’s
evil. I won’t have grief so
If I can change
it. Oh, I won’t, I won’t!’
‘There, you have
said it all and you feel better.
You won’t go
now. You’re crying. Close the door.
The heart’s gone
out of it: why keep it up.
Amy! There’s
someone coming down the road!’
‘You—oh, you
think the talk is all. I must go—
Somewhere out of
this house. How can I make you—’
‘If—you—do!’ She
was opening the door wider.
‘Where do you
mean to go? First tell me that.
I’ll follow and
bring you back by force. I will!—’
________________________________________
A SERVANT TO
SERVANTS
I didn't make you know how glad I was
To have you come
and camp here on our land.
I promised
myself to get down some day
And see the way
you lived, but I don't know!
With a houseful
of hungry men to feed
I guess you'd
find.... It seems to me
I can't express
my feelings any more
Than I can raise
my voice or want to lift
My hand (oh, I
can lift it when I have to).
Did ever you
feel so? I hope you never.
It's got so I
don't even know for sure
Whether I am glad,
sorry, or anything.
There's nothing
but a voice-like left inside
That seems to
tell me how I ought to feel,
And would feel
if I wasn't all gone wrong.
You take the
lake. I look and look at it.
I see it's a
fair, pretty sheet of water.
I stand and make
myself repeat out loud
The advantages
it has, so long and narrow,
Like a deep
piece of some old running river
Cut short off at
both ends. It lies five miles
Straight away
through the mountain notch
From the sink
window where I wash the plates,
And all our storms
come up toward the house,
Drawing the slow
waves whiter and whiter and whiter.
It took my mind
off doughnuts and soda biscuit
To step outdoors
and take the water dazzle
A sunny morning,
or take the rising wind
About my face
and body and through my wrapper,
When a storm
threatened from the Dragon's Den,
And a cold chill
shivered across the lake.
I see it's a
fair, pretty sheet of water,
Our Willoughby!
How did you hear of it?
I expect,
though, everyone's heard of it.
In a book about
ferns? Listen to that!
You let things
more like feathers regulate
Your going and
coming. And you like it here?
I can see how
you might. But I don't know!
It would be
different if more people came,
For then there
would be business. As it is,
The cottages Len
built, sometimes we rent them,
Sometimes we
don't. We've a good piece of shore
That ought to be
worth something, and may yet.
But I don't
count on it as much as Len.
He looks on the
bright side of everything,
Including me. He
thinks I'll be all right
With doctoring.
But it's not medicine--
Lowe is the only
doctor's dared to say so--
It's rest I
want--there, I have said it out--
From cooking
meals for hungry hired men
And washing
dishes after them--from doing
Things over and
over that just won't stay done.
By good rights I
ought not to have so much
Put on me, but
there seems no other way.
Len says one
steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best
way out is always through.
And I agree to
that, or in so far
As that I can
see no way out but through--
Leastways for
me--and then they'll be convinced.
It's not that
Len don't want the best for me.
It was his plan
our moving over in
Beside the lake
from where that day I showed you
We used to
live--ten miles from anywhere.
We didn't change
without some sacrifice,
But Len went at
it to make up the loss.
His work's a
man's, of course, from sun to sun,
But he works
when he works as hard as I do--
Though there's
small profit in comparisons.
(Women and men
will make them all the same.)
But work ain't
all. Len undertakes too much.
He's into
everything in town. This year
It's highways,
and he's got too many men
Around him to
look after that make waste.
They take
advantage of him shamefully,
And proud, too,
of themselves for doing so.
We have four
here to board, great good-for-nothings,
Sprawling about
the kitchen with their talk
While I fry
their bacon. Much they care!
No more put out
in what they do or say
Than if I wasn't
in the room at all.
Coming and going
all the time, they are:
I don't learn
what their names are, let alone
Their
characters, or whether they are safe
To have inside
the house with doors unlocked.
I'm not afraid
of them, though, if they're not
Afraid of me.
There's two can play at that.
I have my
fancies: it runs in the family.
My father's
brother wasn't right. They kept him
Locked up for
years back there at the old farm.
I've been away
once--yes, I've been away.
The State
Asylum. I was prejudiced;
I wouldn't have
sent anyone of mine there;
You know the old
idea--the only asylum
Was the
poorhouse, and those who could afford,
Rather than send
their folks to such a place,
Kept them at
home; and it does seem more human.
But it's not so:
the place is the asylum.
There they have
every means proper to do with,
And you aren't
darkening other people's lives--
Worse than no
good to them, and they no good
To you in your
condition; you can't know
Affection or the
want of it in that state.
I've heard too
much of the old-fashioned way.
My father's
brother, he went mad quite young.
Some thought he
had been bitten by a dog,
Because his
violence took on the form
Of carrying his
pillow in his teeth;
But it's more
likely he was crossed in love,
Or so the story
goes. It was some girl.
Anyway all he
talked about was love.
They soon saw he
would do someone a mischief
If he wa'n't
kept strict watch of, and it ended
In father's
building him a sort of cage,
Or room within a
room, of hickory poles,
Like stanchions
in the barn, from floor to ceiling,--
A narrow passage
all the way around.
Anything they
put in for furniture
He'd tear to
pieces, even a bed to lie on.
So they made the
place comfortable with straw,
Like a beast's
stall, to ease their consciences.
Of course they
had to feed him without dishes.
They tried to
keep him clothed, but he paraded
With his clothes
on his arm--all of his clothes.
Cruel--it
sounds. I 'spose they did the best
They knew. And
just when he was at the height,
Father and
mother married, and mother came,
A bride, to help
take care of such a creature,
And accommodate
her young life to his.
That was what
marrying father meant to her.
She had to lie
and hear love things made dreadful
By his shouts in
the night. He'd shout and shout
Until the
strength was shouted out of him,
And his voice
died down slowly from exhaustion.
He'd pull his
bars apart like bow and bow-string,
And let them go
and make them twang until
His hands had
worn them smooth as any ox-bow.
And then he'd
crow as if he thought that child's play--
The only fun he
had. I've heard them say, though,
They found a way
to put a stop to it.
He was before my
time--I never saw him;
But the pen
stayed exactly as it was
There in the
upper chamber in the ell,
A sort of
catch-all full of attic clutter.
I often think of
the smooth hickory bars.
It got so I
would say--you know, half fooling--
"It's time
I took my turn upstairs in jail"--
Just as you will
till it becomes a habit.
No wonder I was
glad to get away.
Mind you, I
waited till Len said the word.
I didn't want
the blame if things went wrong.
I was glad
though, no end, when we moved out,
And I looked to
be happy, and I was,
As I said, for a
while--but I don't know!
Somehow the
change wore out like a prescription.
And there's more
to it than just window-views
And living by a
lake. I'm past such help--
Unless Len took
the notion, which he won't,
And I won't ask
him--it's not sure enough.
I 'spose I've
got to go the road I'm going:
Other folks have
to, and why shouldn't I?
I almost think
if I could do like you,
Drop everything
and live out on the ground--
But it might be,
come night, I shouldn't like it,
Or a long rain.
I should soon get enough,
And be glad of a
good roof overhead.
I've lain awake
thinking of you, I'll warrant,
More than you
have yourself, some of these nights.
The wonder was
the tents weren't snatched away
From over you as
you lay in your beds.
I haven't
courage for a risk like that.
Bless you, of
course, you're keeping me from work,
But the thing of
it is, I need to be kept.
There's work
enough to do--there's always that;
But behind's
behind. The worst that you can do
Is set me back a
little more behind.
I sha'n't catch
up in this world, anyway.
I'd rather you'd
not go unless you must.
________________________________________
DIRECTIVE
Back out of all
this now too much for us,
Back in a time
made simple by the loss
Of detail,
burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard
marble sculpture in the
weather,
There is a house
that is no more a house
Upon a farm that
is no more a farm
And in a town
that is no more a town.
The road there,
if you'll let a guide direct you
Who only has at
heart your getting lost,
May seem as if
it should have been a
quarry—
Great monolithic
knees the former town
Long since gave
up pretense of keeping
covered.
And there's a
story in a book about it:
Besides the wear
of iron wagon wheels
The ledges show
lines ruled southeast-
northwest,
The chisel work
of an enormous Glacier
That braced his
feet against the Arctic Pole.
You must not
mind a certain coolness from
him
Still said to
haunt this side of Panther Mountain.
Nor need you
mind the serial ordeal
Of being watched
from forty cellar holes
As if by eye
pairs out of forty firkins.
As for the
woods' excitement over you
That sends light
rustle rushes to their leaves,
Charge that to
upstart inexperience.
Where were they
all not twenty years ago?
They think too
much of having shaded out
A few old
pecker-fretted apple trees.
Make yourself up
a cheering song of how
Someone's road
home from work this once
was,
Who may be just
ahead of you on foot
Or creaking with
a buggy load of grain.
The height of
the adventure is the height
Of country where
two village cultures faded
Into each other.
Both of them are lost.
And if you're
lost enough to find yourself
By now, pull in
your ladder road behind you
And put a sign
up CLOSED to all but me.
Then make
yourself at home. The only field
Now left's no
bigger than a harness gall.
First there's
the children's house of
make-believe,
Some shattered
dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings
in the playhouse of the
children.
Weep for what
little things could make
them glad.
Then for the house
that is no more a house,
But only a
belilaced cellar hole,
Now slowly
closing like a dent in dough.
This was no
playhouse but a house in
earnest.
Your destination
and your destiny's
A brook that was
the water of the house,
Cold as a spring
as yet so near its source,
Too lofty and
original to rage.
(We know the
valley streams that when
aroused
Will leave their
tatters hung on barb and
thorn.)
I have kept
hidden in the instep arch
Of an old cedar
at the waterside
A broken
drinking goblet like the Grail
Under a spell so
the wrong ones can't find it,
So can't get
saved, as Saint Mark says
they mustn't.
(I stole the
goblet from the children's
playhouse.)
Here are your
waters and your watering
place.
Drink and be
whole again beyond confusion
________________________________________
Neither Out Far
Nor In Deep
The people along
the sand
All turn and
look one way.
They turn their
back on the land.
They look at the
sea all day.
As long as it
takes to pass
A ship keeps
raising its hull;
The wetter
ground like glass
Reflects a
standing gull
The land may
vary more;
But wherever the
truth may be--
The water comes
ashore,
And the people
look at the sea.
They cannot look
out far.
They cannot look
in deep.
But when was
that ever a bar
To any watch
they keep?
________________________________________
Provide, Provide
The witch that
came (the withered hag)
To wash the
steps with pail and rag
Was once the
beauty Abishag,
The picture
pride of Hollywood.
Too many fall
from great and good
For you to doubt
the likelihood.
Die early and
avoid the fate.
Or if
predestined to die late,
Make up your
mind to die in state.
Make the whole
stock exchange your own!
If need be
occupy a throne,
Where nobody can
call you crone.
Some have relied
on what they knew,
Others on being
simply true.
What worked for
them might work for you.
No memory of
having starred
Atones for later
disregard
Or keeps the end
from being hard.
Better to go
down dignified
With boughten
friendship at your side
Than none at
all. Provide, provide!
Acquainted with
the Night
I have been one
acquainted with the night.
I have walked
out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked
the furthest city light.
I have looked
down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by
the watchman on his beat
And dropped my
eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood
still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an
interrupted cry
Came over houses
from another street,
But not to call
me back or say good-bye;
And further
still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock
against the sky
Proclaimed the
time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one
acquainted with the night.
________________________________________
The Most of It
He thought he
kept the universe alone;
For all the
voice in answer he could wake
Was but the
mocking echo of his own
From some
tree–hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning
from the boulder–broken beach
He would cry out
on life, that what it wants
Is not its own
love back in copy speech,
But
counter–love, original response.
And nothing ever
came of what he cried
Unless it was
the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff's
talus on the other side,
And then in the
far distant water splashed,
But after a time
allowed for it to swim,
Instead of
proving human when it neared
And someone else
additional to him,
As a great buck
it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the
crumpled water up ahead,
And landed
pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled
through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the
underbrush—and that was all.
________________________________________
An Old Man's
Winter Night
All out of doors
looked darkly in at him
Through the thin
frost, almost in separate stars,
That gathers on
the pane in empty rooms.
What kept his
eyes from giving back the gaze
Was the lamp
tilted near them in his hand.
What kept him
from remembering what it was
That brought him
to that creaking room was age.
He stood with
barrels round him -- at a loss.
And having
scared the cellar under him
In clomping
there, he scared it once again
In clomping off;
-- and scared the outer night,
Which has its
sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and
crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so
like beating on a box.
A light he was
to no one but himself
Where now he
sat, concerned with he knew what,
A quiet light,
and then not even that.
He consigned to
the moon, such as she was,
So late-arising,
to the broken moon
As better than
the sun in any case
For such a
charge, his snow upon the roof,
His icicles
along the wall to keep;
And slept. The
log that shifted with a jolt
Once in the
stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
And eased his
heavy breathing, but still slept.
One aged man --
one man -- can't keep a house,
A farm, a
countryside, or if he can,
It's thus he
does it of a winter night.
________________________________________
To Earthward
Love at the lips
was touch
As sweet as I
could bear;
And once that
seemed too much;
I lived on air
That crossed me
from sweet things,
The flow of -
was it musk
From hidden
grapevine springs
Down hill at
dusk?
I had the swirl
and ache
From sprays of
honeysuckle
That when
they're gathered shake
Dew on the
knuckle.
I craved strong
sweets, but those
Seemed strong
when I was young;
The petal of the
rose
It was that stung.
Now no joy but
lacks salt
That is not
dashed with pain
And weariness
and fault;
I crave the
stain
Of tears, the
aftermark
Of almost too
much love,
The sweet of
bitter bark
And burning
clove.
When stiff and
sore and scarred
I take away my
hand
From leaning on
it hard
In grass and
sand,
The hurt is not
enough:
I long for
weight and strength
To feel the
earth as rough
To all my
length.
________________________________________
Spring Pools
These pools
that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky
almost without defect,
And like the
flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the
flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out
by any brook or river,
But up by roots
to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that
have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature
and be summer woods -
Let them think
twice before they use their powers
To blot out and
drink up and sweep away
These flowery
waters and these watery flowers
From snow that
melted only yesterday.
________________________________________
Career
Poet. Held
various jobs between college studies, including bobbin boy in a Massachusetts
mill, cobbler, editor of a country newspaper, schoolteacher, and farmer. Lived
in England, 1912-15. Tufts College, Medford, MA, Phi Beta Kappa poet, 1915 and
1940; Amherst College, Amherst, MA, professor of English and poet-in-residence,
1916-20, 1923-25, and 1926-28; Harvard University, Cambridge, MA, Phi Beta
Kappa poet, 1916 and 1941; Middlebury College, Middlebury, VT, co-founder of
the Bread-Loaf School and Conference of English, 1920, annual lecturer,
beginning 1920; University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, professor and
poet-in-residence, 1921-23, fellow in letters, 1925-26; Columbia University,
New York City, Phi Beta Kappa poet, 1932; Yale University, New Haven, CT,
associate fellow, beginning 1933; Harvard University, Charles Eliot Norton
Professor of Poetry, 1936, board overseer, 1938-39, Ralph Waldo Emerson Fellow,
1939-41, honorary fellow, 1942-43; associate of Adams House; fellow in American
civilization, 1941-42; Dartmouth College, Hanover, NH, George Ticknor Fellow in
Humanities, 1943-49, visiting lecturer.
Bibliography
POETRY
Twilight,
[Lawrence, MA], 1894, reprinted, University of Virginia, 1966.
A Boy's Will, D.
Nutt, 1913, Holt, 1915.
North of Boston,
D. Nutt, 1914, Holt, 1915, reprinted, Dodd, 1977.
Mountain
Interval, Holt, 1916.
New Hampshire,
Holt, 1923, reprinted, New Dresden Press, 1955.
Selected Poems,
Holt, 1923.
Several Short
Poems, Holt, 1924.
West-Running
Brook, Holt, 1928.
Selected Poems,
Holt, 1928.
The Lovely Shall
Be Choosers, Random House, 1929.
The Lone
Striker, Knopf, 1933.
Two Tramps in
Mud-Time, Holt, 1934.
The Gold
Hesperidee, Bibliophile Press, 1935.
Three Poems,
Baker Library Press, 1935.
A Further Range,
Holt, 1936.
From Snow to
Snow, Holt, 1936.
A Witness Tree,
Holt, 1942.
A Masque of
Reason (verse drama), Holt, 1942.
Steeple Bush,
Holt, 1947.
A Masque of
Mercy (verse drama), Holt, 1947.
Greece, Black
Rose Press, 1948.
Hard Not to Be
King, House of Books, 1951.
Aforesaid, Holt,
1954.
The Gift
Outright, Holt, 1961.
"Dedication"
and "The Gift Outright" (poems read at the presidential inaugural,
1961; published with the inaugural address of J. F. Kennedy), Spiral Press,
1961.
In the Clearing,
Holt, 1962.
Stopping by
Woods on a Snowy Evening, Dutton, 1978.
Early Poems,
Crown, 1981.
A Swinger of
Birches: Poems of Robert Frost for Young People (with audiocassette), Stemmer
House, 1982.
Spring Pools,
Lime Rock Press, 1983.
Birches,
illustrated by Ed Young, Holt, 1988.
The Runaway
(juvenile poetry), illustrated by Glenna Lang, Godine (Boston, MA), 1996.
Also author of
And All We Call American, 1958.
POEMS ISSUED AS
CHRISTMAS GREETINGS
Christmas Trees,
Spiral Press, 1929.
Neither Out Far
Nor In Deep, Holt, 1935.
Everybody's
Sanity, [Los Angeles], 1936.
To a Young
Wretch, Spiral Press, 1937.
Triple Plate,
Spiral Press, 1939.
Our Hold on the
Planet, Holt, 1940.
An Unstamped
Letter in Our Rural Letter Box, Spiral Press, 1944.
On Making
Certain Anything Has Happened, Spiral Press, 1945.
One Step
Backward Taken, Spiral Press, 1947.
Closed for Good,
Spiral Press, 1948.
On a Tree Fallen
Across the Road to Hear Us Talk, Spiral Press, 1949.
Doom to Bloom,
Holt, 1950.
A Cabin in the
Clearing, Spiral Press, 1951.
Does No One but
Me at All Ever Feel This Way in the Least, Spiral Press, 1952.
One More
Brevity, Holt, 1953.
From a Milkweed
Pod, Holt, 1954.
Some Science
Fiction, Spiral Press, 1955.
Kitty Hawk,
1894, Holt, 1956.
My Objection to
Being Stepped On, Holt, 1957.
Away, Spiral
Press, 1958.
A-Wishing Well,
Spiral Press, 1959.
Accidentally on
Purpose, Holt, 1960.
The Woodpile,
Spiral Press, 1961.
The Prophets
Really Prophesy as Mystics, the Commentators Merely by Statistics, Spiral
Press, 1962.
The Constant
Symbol, [New York], 1962.
COLLECTIONS
Collected Poems
of Robert Frost, Holt, 1930, new edition, 1939, reprinted, Buccaneer Books,
1983.
Selected Poems,
Holt, 1934, reprinted, 1963.
Come In, and
Other Poems, edited by Louis Untermeyer, Holt, 1943, reprinted, F. Watts, 1967,
enlarged edition published as The Road Not Taken: An Introduction to Robert
Frost, reprinted as The Pocket Book of Robert Frost's Poems, Pocket Books,
1956.
The Poems of
Robert Frost, Modern Library, 1946.
You Come Too:
Favorite Poems for Young Readers, Holt, 1959, reprinted, 1967.
A Remembrance
Collection of New Poems by Robert Frost, Holt, 1959.
Poems,
Washington Square Press, 1961.
Longer Poems:
The Death of the Hired Man, Holt, 1966.
Selected Prose,
edited by Hyde Cox and Edward Connery Lathem, Holt, 1966, reprinted, Collier
Books, 1968.
Complete Poems
of Robert Frost, Holt, 1968.
The Poetry of
Robert Frost, edited by Lathem, Holt, 1969.
Robert Frost:
Poetry and Prose, edited by Lawrence Thompson and Lathem, Holt, 1972.
Selected Poems,
edited by Ian Hamilton, Penguin, 1973.
Collected Poems,
Plays, and Prose, Library of America (New York, NY), 1995.
Early Frost: The
First Three Books, Ecco (Hopewell, NJ), 1996.
Versed in
Country Things, edited by Edward Connery Lathem, Little, Brown, 1996.
(With
Christopher Burkett) Robert Frost: Seasons, MJF (New York, NY), Books, 1996.
The Robert Frost
Reader: Poetry and Prose, edited by Edward Connery Lathem and Lawrance
Thompson, Henry Holt (New York, NY), 2002.
Robert Frost,
compiled by S. L. Berry, Creative Education (Mankato, MN), 2003.
LETTERS
The Letters of
Robert Frost to Louis Untermeyer, Holt, 1963.
Selected
Letters, edited by Thompson, Holt, 1964.
OTHER
A Way Out: A
One-Act Play, Harbor Press, 1929.
The Cow's in the
Corn: A One-Act Irish Play in Rhyme, Slide Mountain Press, 1929.
(Contributor)
John Holmes, editor, Writing Poetry, Writer, Inc., 1960.
(Contributor)
Milton R. Konvitz and Stephen E. Whicher, editors, Emerson, Prentice-Hall,
1962.
Robert Frost on
"Extravagance" (the text of Frost's last college lecture, Dartmouth
College, November 27, 1962), [Hanover, NH], 1963.
Robert Frost: A
Living Voice (contains speeches by Frost), edited by Reginald Cook, University
of Massachusetts Press, 1974.
(With Caroline
Ford) The Less Travelled Road, Bern Porter, 1982.
Stories for
Lesley, edited by Roger D. Sell, University Press of Virginia, 1984.
Frost's papers
are collected at the libraries of the University of Virginia, Amherst College,
and Dartmouth College, and the Huntington Library in San Marino, California.
Further Reading
BOOKS
Anderson,
Margaret, Robert Frost and John Bartlett: The Record of a Friendship, Holt,
1963.
Barry, Elaine,
compiler, Robert Frost on Writing, Rutgers University Press, 1973.
Barry, Elaine,
Robert Frost, Ungar, 1973.
Bloom, Harold,
ed., Robert Frost, Chelsea House Publishers, 1998.
Breit, Harvey,
The Writer Observed, World Publishing, 1956.
Concise
Dictionary of American Literary Biography: The Twenties, 1917-1929, Gale, 1989.
Contemporary
Literary Criticism, Gale, Volume 1, 1973, Volume 3, 1975, Volume 4, 1975,
Volume 9, 1978, Volume 10, 1979, Volume 13, 1980, Volume 15, 1980, Volume 26,
1983, Volume 34, 1985, Volume 44, 1987.
Cook, Reginald
L., The Dimensions of Robert Frost, Rinehart, 1958.
Cook, Reginald
L., Robert Frost: A Living Voice, University of Massachusetts Press, 1974.
Cox, James M.,
Robert Frost: A Collection of Critical Essays, Prentice-Hall, 1962.
Cox, Sidney,
Swinger of Birches: A Portrait of Robert Frost, New York University Press,
1957.
Cramer, Jefferey
S., Robert Frost among His Poems: A Literary Companion to the Poet's Own
Biographical Contexts and Associations, McFarland (Jefferson, NC), 1996.
Dictionary of
Literary Biography, Volume 54: American Poets, 1880-1945, Third Series, Gale,
1987.
Dodd, Loring
Holmes, Celebrities at Our Hearthside, Dresser, 1959.
Doyle, John R.,
Jr., Poetry of Robert Frost: An Analysis, Hallier, 1965.
Evans, William R.,
editor, Robert Frost and Sidney Cox: Forty Years of Friendship, University
Press of New England, 1981.
Faggen, Robert,
Robert Frost and the Challenge of Darwin, University of Michigan Press, 1997.
Fleissner,
Robert F., Frost's Road Taken, Peter Lang (New York), 1996.
Francis, Lesley
Lee, The Frost Family's Adventure in Poetry: Sheer Morning Gladness at the
Brim, University of Missouri Press (Columbia), 1994.
Francis, Robert,
recorder, A Time to Talk: Conversations and Indiscretions, University of Massachusetts
Press, 1972.
Frost, Lesley,
New Hampshire's Child: Derry Journals of Lesley Frost, State University of New
York Press, 1969.
Gerber, Philip
L., Robert Frost, Twayne, 1966.
Gould, Jean,
Robert Frost: The Aim Was Song, Dodd, 1964.
Grade, Arnold,
editor, Family Letters of Robert and Elinor Frost, State University of New York
Press, 1972.
Greiner, Donald
J., Checklist of Robert Frost, Charles E. Merrill, 1969.
Greiner, Donald
J. and Charles Sanders, Robert Frost: The Poet and His Critics, American
Library Association, 1974.
Hall, Donald,
Remembering Poets, Hater, 1977.
Ingebretsen, Ed,
Robert Frost: Star and a Stone Boat: Aspects of a Grammar of Belief,
International Scholars Publications (San Francisco), 1994.
Isaacs, Emily
Elizabeth, Introduction to Robert Frost, A. Swallow, 1962, reprinted, Haskell
House, 1972.
Jarrell,
Randall, Poetry and the Age, Vintage, 1955.
Jennings,
Elizabeth, Frost, Barnes & Noble, 1966.
Kearns,
Katherine, Robert Frost and a Poetics of Appetite, Cambridge University Press
(Cambridge, England), 1994.
Kilcup, Karen
L., Robert Frost and Feminine Literary Tradition, University of Michigan Press,
1998.
Lathem, Edward
C. and Lawrence Thompson, editors, Robert Frost: Farm Poultryman; The Story of
Robert Frost's Career As a Breeder and Fancier of Hens, Dartmouth Publishers,
1963.
Lathem, Edward
C., editor, Interviews with Robert Frost, Rinehart, 1966.
Lathem, Edward
C., editor, A Concordance to the Poetry of Robert Frost, Holt Information
Systems, 1971.
Lentriccia, Frank,
Robert Frost: Modern Poetics and the Landscapes of Self, Duke University Press,
1975.
Lowell, Amy,
Tendencies in Modern American Poetry, Macmillan, 1917.
Maxson, H.A., On
the Sonnets of Robert Frost, McFarland and Co., 1997.
Mertins,
Marshall Louis and Esther Mertins, Intervals of Robert Frost: A Critical
Bibliography, University of California Press, 1947, reprinted, Russell, 1975.
Mertins,
Marshall Louis, Robert Frost: Life and Talks— Walking, University of Oklahoma
Press, 1965.
Meyers, Jeffrey,
Robert Frost: A Biography, Houghton Mifflin (Boston, MA), 1996.
Muir, Helen,
Frost in Florida: A Memoir, Valiant Press (Miami), 1995.
Munson, Gorham
B., Robert Frost: A Study in Sensibility and Good Sense, G. H. Doran, 1927,
reprinted, Haskell House, 1969.
Newdick, Robert
Spangler, Newdick's Season of Frost: An Interrupted Biography of Robert Frost,
edited by William A. Sutton, State University of New York Press, 1976.
Orton, Vrest,
Vermont Afternoons with Robert Frost, Tuttle, 1971.
Pearce, Roy
Harvey, The Continuity of American Poetry, Princeton, 1961.
Poirier,
Richard, Robert Frost, Oxford University Press, 1977.
Pound, Ezra, The
Literary Essays of Ezra Pound, New Directions, 1954.
Pritchard,
William H., Frost: A Literary Life Reconsidered, Oxford University Press, 1984.
Reeve, Franklin
D., Robert Frost in Russia, Little, Brown, 1964.
Richardson,
Mark, The Ordeal of Robert Frost: The Poet and His Poetics, University of
Illinois Press, 1997.
Rosenthal, M.
L., The Modern Poets, Oxford University Press, 1965.
Shepley,
Elizabeth, Robert Frost: The Trial by Existence, Holt, 1960.
Sohn, David A.
and Richard Tyre, Frost: The Poet and His Poetry, Holt, 1967.
Spiller, Robert
E. and others, Literary History of the United States, 4th revised edition,
Macmillan, 1974.
Squires,
Radcliffe, Major Themes of Robert Frost, University of Michigan Press, 1969.
Tharpe, Jac,
editor, Frost: Centennial Essays II, University Press of Mississippi, 1976.
Thompson,
Lawrence, Fire and Ice: The Art and Thought of Robert Frost, Holt, 1942,
reprinted, Russell, 1975.
Thompson,
Lawrence, Robert Frost, University of Minnesota Press, 1959.
Thompson,
Lawrence, editor, Selected Letters of Robert Frost, Holt, 1964.
Thompson,
Lawrence, Robert Frost: The Early Years, 1874-1915, Holt, 1966.
Thompson,
Lawrence, Robert Frost: The Years of Triumph, 1915-1938, Holt, 1970.
Thompson,
Lawrence and R. H. Winnick, Robert Frost: The Later Years, 1938-1963, Holt,
1976.
Tutein, David
W., Robert Frost's Reading: An Annotated Bibliography, Edwin Mellen, 1997.
Unger, Leonard
and William Van O'Connor, Poems for Study, Holt, 1953.
Untermeyer,
Louis, Makers of the Modern World, Simon & Schuster, 1955.
Untermeyer,
Louis, Lives of the Poets, Simon & Schuster, 1959.
Untermeyer, Louis,
Robert Frost: A Backward Look, U.S. Government Printing Office, 1964.
Van Egmond,
Peter, The Critical Reception of Robert Frost, G. K. Hall, 1974.
Waggoner, Hyatt
H., American Poetry from the Puritans to the Present, Houghton, 1968.
Wagner, Linda
Welshimer, editor, Robert Frost: The Critical Reception, B. Franklin, 1977.
West, Herbert
Faulkner, Mind on the Wing, Coward, 1947.
Wilcox, Earl J.,
His "Incalculable" Influence on Others: Essays on Robert Frost in Our
Time, English Literary Studies, University of Victoria (Victoria, British
Columbia), 1994.
Winters, Yvor,
The Function of Criticism, A. Swallow, 1957.
PERIODICALS
America,
December 24, 1977.
American
Literature, January, 1948.
Atlantic,
February, 1964, November, 1966.
Bookman,
January, 1924.
Books, May 10,
1942.
Boston
Transcript, December 2, 1916.
Commonweal, May
4, 1962, April 1, 1977.
New Republic,
February 20, 1915.
New York Herald
Tribune, November 18, 1928.
New York Times,
October 19, 1986.
New York Times
Book Review, July 17, 1988.
New York Times
Magazine, June 11, 1972; August 18, 1974.
Poetry, May,
1913.
Saturday Review
of Literature, May 30, 1936; April 25, 1942.
South Atlantic
Quarterly, summer, 1958.
Times Literary
Supplement, December 14, 1967.
Virginia
Quarterly Review, summer, 1957.
Wisconsin
Library Bulletin, July, 1962.
Yale Review,
spring, 1934, summer, 1948.
PERIODICALS
Current
Biography, March, 1963.
Illustrated
London News, February 9, 1963.
Newsweek,
February 11, 1963.
New York Times,
January 30, 1963.
Publishers
Weekly, February 11, 1963.