Shadows Of The Cattail, Minneapolis, Minnesota, February 2008, photo © 2008 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.
Robert Frost was an American poet who lived from March 26, 1874, to January 29, 1963. He was born in San Francisco, made his way to Massachusetts via Harvard, and finally settled in New Hampshire.
My 3rd grade English teacher, Mrs. Boykin, loved three poets: Ralph Waldo Emerson, Emily Dickinson, and Robert Frost. She would recite their poetry to us while she slow walked past dusty slate boards, 6-pronged chalk holders with wire fingers, and a rattly, roll-down map of the world, circa 1963.
I became familiar with Frost’s poetry around the age of 9. But it wasn’t until adulthood that I became obsessed with learning about the geographical places that writers call Home.
The Robert Frost Farm in Derry was home to Robert Frost from 1900-1911. In October of 1900, he settled on the Derry farm in New Hampshire, just over the Massachusetts line, purchased for him by his grandfather. But from 1915 to 1920, it was The Frost Place, in Franconia, New Hampshire where he and his family lived full-time, and went on to spend nineteen summers.
Frost received four Pulitzer Prizes, in 1924, 1931, 1937, and 1943. He lived a long life, and his poems are often recited and remembered by heart. The Road Not Taken, one of his most famous poems, was published in 1916 in his collection Mountain Interval.
But I was reminded of another Frost poem by amuirin from Stop & Wander, in her comment on Listening to Silence. It led me to go back and read Frost again, to revisit his life. So it is Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, published in 1923 in his New Hampshire volume, that I am choosing to post.
My favorite research find was a 1960 interview with Robert Frost by Richard Poirier in The Paris Review. The interview took place in Frost’s home in Cambridge, Massachusetts near the end of his life.
He was wearing plaid slippers and was seated in a blue overstuffed chair (with no arms) where he often sat to write. He never had a writing table, a desk, or a writing room. He wrote on a writing board, or the sole of his shoe.
That’s where Frost and I part ways. Though I often write in coffee shops on the back of a crumpled Post-It (just ask Liz how many pieces of paper she finds scattered all over the house), or in a pocket notebook at a sunken spot near the living room window — I still long for a writing room. A comfortable desk, floor to ceiling bookshelves to display my personal book collection, a room of my own.
Robert Frost wrote Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening in June, 1922 at his house in South Shaftsbury, Vermont (now home to the Robert Frost Stone House Museum). He lived in the Stone House from 1920 to 1929 (there is an excellent chronology with photographs at The Friends of Frost).
It is said that Frost had been up the entire night writing the long poem New Hampshire, and had finally finished when he realized morning had come. When he went out to view the sunrise, Stopping By Woods came to him like a hallucination.
I thought of Natalie’s chapter in Thunder and Lightning entitled Hallucinating Emeralds. Sometimes writing comes like that. You hear songwriters talk about flashes of inspiration, or dream sequences where whole songs write themselves, and the next morning flow magically from their pens.
My second favorite research find was an audio version of Robert Frost reciting, Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening. You can listen to it at Salon Audio – Robert Frost. If you’ve been reading red Ravine, I guess you know by now, I’m a big fan of writers reading their work. I want to hear their voices.
Robert Frost is one of the classical poets — traditional enough to capture those who have been around awhile; detailed enough to lead us across that bend in the woods; wide enough that anyone can find a small opening. And if someone asked me to choose the Frost of our time, I might look no further than Ted Kooser.
Cattail Forest, Minneapolis, Minnesota, February 2008, photo © 2008 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.
Stopping By 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.-Robert Frost, New Hampshire: A Poem with Notes and Grace Notes (New York: Henry Holt and Co., 1923), p. 87. D-11 0397 Fisher Library.
-posted on red Ravine, Thursday, February 21st, 2008
-related to post, Listening To Silence
-Additional links (as a result of more research after the post Comment thread):
- Robert Frost Reads His Poems (LINK) – link from the Dartmouth Class of ’61 website. Frost reads 6 poems with clear audio (HarperAudio). (Note: you need QuickTime but it downloads quickly if you don’t already have it.)
- Class of ’53 Salutes Frost in Newsletter (LINK) – commentary and photograph of the Dartmouth statue of Robert Frost
- Dartmouth Class of 1961 website (LINK) – gifted Dartmouth with the Robert Frost statue in 1996 on their 25th Class Reunion
This is a lovely post and photo set. Now I’m inspired to look up the homes of a few of my favorite authors.
LikeLike
Great post, QM. I look forward to listening to Robert Frost read his poem. Oh, and your third-grade teacher — what a gift! You had some inspiring teachers in your youth.
Much more tomorrow, after I get a good night’s sleep.
LikeLike
barbara, thanks. Place has a big impact on writers and artists. I think it’s one of the keys to knowing who a person really is. Even if a person does not like the place they come from, their roots are there. It’s in their blood.
I think place also helps put a writer’s work in context. As does the time that they wrote it. It’s important to look at context when reading a writer’s work, just as you would if you were viewing an artist’s work – you would put it in the context of the art movement of the time.
What is cutting edge now, was not in 1900 or 1920. All the creatives that came before us, opened doors and blazed a trail.
ybonesy, It’s interesting about Frost – he has a reputation for being pretty conservative (as a person), a bit edgy. And I’m guessing he was. If you read the 1960 interview in the Paris Review (which also tells a lot about the process of writing), you can get a little sense of his ego. He did seem a rather confident man. But that doesn’t take away from his contributions to poetry.
I wouldn’t choose him as one of my favorite writers of all time. It’s just that he has a place in my childhood memories about learning of writers and poets. And so he has a place in the heart. Same with Emily Dickinson and Emerson. (Also Dickens for me).
I think we all have those early people we learned about, people our teachers loved and passed on to us. I like to dive into them.
ybonesy, the audio recording moves by very quickly, kind of like hearing the recording of Edison when he invented the gramophone! But it’s cool to hear it. I remember Mrs. Boykin playing recordings for us as well of the old poets.
LikeLike
QouinMonkey – this poem of Frost was one of the first that I memorized on my own in my new English language as an early teen girl. I loved the sibilants that course through a reading of this poem – so much a reminder of the whispery sound of snowfall. Also your post reminds how important a sense of place is to most of us, but particularly how it informs deeply the poets and writers, and artists in our midst. I love the shadow photo, it took me there ,looking alongside with you. Thanks! G
LikeLike
Thank-you, QuoinMonkey, for bringing us close to Robert Frost. Like you and the people who have commented, he holds a significant place in my heart, too.
When I was a junior in college I traveled during “J Term” to Michigan for a class called Winter Literature. We stayed at rustic cabins in the northern tip of the state, and studied authors who lived and breathed nature. Frost and London made the greatest impact on me. Our instructor was one of those rare jewels who helped us understand how to unpack literature, how to think about it, she gave us tools to navigate and understand.
In the woods of Dartmouth College (New Hampshire), there is a statue of Frost writing. When I traveled there four years ago, I spent a lot of time just looking at the statue. Wanting to emulate what I saw.
LikeLike
G, thank you. I was happy as well with the way the top photograph turned out. There is a certain light this time of year, a winter light, that is so hard to capture.
I have tried to take a good exposure of such shadows many times. Most are too dark, or just don’t capture the way the light actually is. This one seemed to do that. It really pleased me when I saw it blown up. Thank you!
About the Frost poem, I had to refresh myself on what a sibilant is. (I should know that!)
sibilant – (noun) a consonant characterized by a hissing sound (like s or sh) or (adj.) speech sounds produced by forcing air through a constricted passage (as `f’, `s’, `z’, or `th’ in both `thin’ and `then’).
Sometimes I think those who learn English as a second language are more versed about the details of English language than those of us who grew up with it. 8)
But what I wanted to say about the poem (and poetry in general), it’s totally meant to be read aloud. When I did this post, I read the poem with my eyes many times as I was posting it. But when I actually read it out loud a few times, it came to life – I loved it all over again.
And I think it has to do with what you are talking about – the rhythm of the way the sounds move off the tongue and out of the mouth. I’m so glad you pointed that detail out.
It seems this poem has a special meaning to you as well. It’s good to remember poetry that moved us at one time or another in our lives. And to think about poetry as connected to memories, much the way music is.
LikeLike
Sinclair, a college class on Winter Literature, how delightful. Your prof must have been a rare jewel indeed. Did you ever get a chance to tell her how much she impacted you?
I would throw Henry David Thoreau into that category, too, with Frost and London and Dickinson. What other writers lived and breathed nature?
I didn’t know Dartmouth had a statue of Frost either. And, well, you know how I am, I had to look for a photograph of the Robert Frost statue at Dartmouth. It’s quite amazing, really lifelike.
Here’s a little history and some links. Thanks for the tip, Sinclair. It looks as though others have been very moved by this statue as well. It really adds a lot to this Frost post!
Class of ’53 Salutes Frost in Newsletter (LINK) – read the rest of the commentary above about the Dartmouth Frost statue
Dartmouth Class of 1961 website (LINK) – gifted Dartmouth with the statue in 1996 on their 25th reunion
Robert Frost Reads His Poems (LINK) – this link was on the Class of ’61 website and is a much better link than the one in the body of this post. Frost reads about 5 or 6 poems and a much better audio! (Note: You need QuickTime but it downloads quickly if you don’t already have it.)
LikeLike
This is one of my favorite poems.
Your photos are beautiful, QM. 🙂
LikeLike
QuoinMonkey,
You get an A+ for photographic research! I loved seeing the photo again, and the clip of Robert reading is a treasure. I could listen to it again and again. Maybe I will.
LikeLike
I just read the poem out loud, and yes, it rang. It was wonderful.
You bring up a good point, QM, about the poem being meant to read out loud. It made me wonder, are there poems that are meant not to? I suppose the answer would be, why, of course!
What do you think?
LikeLike
ybonesy, that’s a good question. I just listened to the 6 poems in the link, read by Frost. A very different experience than reading them.
I think there is something to being read to, especially with poetry. (And kids love to be read to.) Some people are audiio based, too, rather than visual.
But, you know, there are some Epic poems (Walt Whitman comes to mind) that I can’t imagine sitting through while someone read them. I wonder if those kinds of poems are meant to be read?
Sometimes I like to have the work of poets from other countries read to me in their native language. I don’t always understand what they are saying, but the inflections are just beautiful.
I’d love to hear what others think about your question – reading poetry as opposed to listening to it read.
LikeLike
Oh, ybonesy, I just had another thought of the Epic poem by Beat poet, Allen Ginsberg — Howl. I have both read part of it and heard him read it in audio form. In that case, both seem to ring true for me.
LikeLike
QM – I love to hear poetry read – but not all poets are good readers; of them the ones that are transfix with the sounding out of words. i find it useful to have copies of a poem after a reading, so I can see structure, line breaks ( breath breaks) and sub-vocalize as i read and re-read.
You mentioned Emily Dickinson. He “I heard a fly buzz when I died.” is a poem that demands hearing, because then the meaning of the poem reveals itself to one (Differently for everyone, porbably). I’d like to hear a matter-of-fact Emily Dickinson bring those sounds to life – i wish. G
LikeLike
Terrific photos and an excellent essay! As an added bonus to your delightful post, you have some most excellent readers with commentary well worth considering.
Good stuff.
LikeLike
I know that Robert Frost lived in the cutest house…
LikeLike
I have always liked his work. It almost makes me think about living in places with snow…notice I said just think about it though. I think I am more suited to island life. 🙂
This was a lot of work to prepare, and I thank you for sharing it with us!
LikeLike
Good point on the epic poems, QM.
I find that reading a poem outloud helps me slow down and listen deeply to the words and the rhythm. I think it might have something to do with my inexperience with poetry, not so much with the poem itself.
I was thinking, I should keep a book of poetry by my nightstand and read one poem each night.
LikeLike
I went on a winter walk this morning; my plan to walk around a lake in my town. I started walking and thought, “Wait, what would Robert Frost do?” I knew he’d take the ice across the lake…the road less traveled. When I got in the middle, I laid down on the ice and stared up at the blue sky. It was possibly the best thing I’ve done in months. I might take a blanket next time so I can stay longer.
LikeLike
G, good point on people who read writers’ work – not all are good at reading out loud. This is true for some writers reading their work as well. When it’s our own writing, I think it takes practice to really slow down and get past the nervousness of reading. I really enjoy it when people read slowly and take their time. A pleasure.
The other thing you said, about being able to hear something in a poem you might not get when you read it – very creative way of thinking about poetry. And also how you like to see the words on the page – where they break. I find with posting poems, I HAVE to be able to see the poem on the page. Otherwise I have no idea where to place the breaks. Poetry is something that is many times read differently than it is spoken. So seeing it is a delight. Thanks for your rich comments on this post.
LikeLike
Rodger, thanks so much for your comment. I am glad you enjoyed this post. Welcome to red Ravine and I hope you will return once in a while.
LB, I really got into looking at the rural places Frost lived. I think he moved into the city later in life, but I didn’t take the research that far. He did the bulk of his most famous writing on these farms and stone houses. Kind of cool to think about.
gypsy-heart, thanks for your comment! I appreciate it and it’s true, posts like these do take more work. I don’t have as much time as I used to for them as I try to balance all my writing projects more. But lately, I’ve been inspired by writing them. I’ve seen photos of your island on your blog and it looks very different than the Far North that Frost lived in (and where I reside). I have no idea what I’d do without snow and seasons. I just love winter!
LikeLike
ybonesy, I really like the idea of keeping a book of poetry on the night stand and reading one a night. It seems doable. And like a great practice to begin. Hmmmm.
You know, I’ve got to give credit to Natalie for getting me back into poetry again. She reads it in her workshops and the way that she reads, slow, deliberate, taking her time, just makes it come alive for me. She really inspired me to dig into poetry again. And introduced me to many poets over the last 7 or 8 years.
Sinclair, your walk sounds delightful. And that you took the road less travelled across the ice! Liz and I were out on the middle of a lake at an Art On Ice show where we live last weekend (it was freezing and windy) and now I wish I would have done that, just to see what it was like. But it was so cold that day.
This weekend, it’s been mild and warmer. And I’ve noticed the light is returning. It would be a good day to commune with Frost on ice. I’ll have to give that some thought. 8)
LikeLike
[…] out you don’t hafta be planning to watch the Oscars to play. Anyone can make guesses right up till they announce the first winner. If you hate Hollywood, and hate the Oscars, Jon Stewart is the host so […]
LikeLike
Hey, for all you Frost fans, I just picked up the March/April 2008 Poets & Writers and there’s a whole section on Writing Retreats (fun to read, highly recommended).
Writing Retreats can be expensive, but don’t let money hold you back. If you are ready and willing, any number of things may come down from the Universe to support your efforts! (Trust me, I know this first hand.)
The Frost Place, in Franconia, New Hampshire has quite a few events for writers this year. The Frost Place is 150 years old and is on a quiet country lane with a view of the White Mountains (beautiful if you’ve never seen them).
Anyway, here are some of the upcoming retreats:
30th Annual Festival & Conference of Poetry
July 27th – August 2nd
Resident poet – James Hock will live and work in Frost’s farmhouse in July & August and give 3 public readings during the Summer. There are also lectures by 10+ other poets. (One day visits are available if you can’t afford the whole thing)
10th Anniversary of the Frost Place Seminar
August 3rd – August 8th
Seminar Director – Jeanne Marie Beaumont will lead the intensive 5 day program exploring “how the poetry of the past can guide and challenge contemporary writers”
Frost Place also sponsors:
Young Poets Conference
April 25th – April 27th
Conference on Poetry & Teaching
June 30th – July 4th
For more info on pricing and details visit, call, or write:
http://www.frostplace.org
(603) 823-5510
rfrost@ncia.net
LikeLike
[…] do you walk the talk? Is it by going to writing retreats, taking risks with your art or writing, writing in a group, submitting your work? Or is it as […]
LikeLike
QM, I’ve been meaning to come back and comment on this post for a couple of weeks now. Earlier this month I heard a piece on National Public Radio about recently published transcripts form a series of informal lectures Frost made at Dartmouth College in 1947.
Given the enthusiasm that commenters expressed in this post over the opportunity to hear Frost’s voice, I thought folks would be interested to know about these newly available recordings. Here is THE LINK to the NPR story. It also has links to three other Robert Frost stories on NPR that might be of interest.
LikeLike
What a great NPR story! I laughed out loud a few times at what Frost said. His voice is sensational. One of those voices I could listen to for hours.
I came across a great tidbit about Frost this week. When he was asked to read an original poem at JFK’s inauguration, the sun was so blinding that he couldn’t see the words of his newly-written poem. In addition, he was 87 years old, so his eyes weren’t that great to begin with. Thinking on his feet, he abandoned Plan A and instead recited a poem he had written years and years before: “The Gift Outright.”
~ The Gift Outright ~
The land was ours before we were the land’s.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia.
But we were England’s, still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding made us weak.
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become.
~ Robert Frost; 1874-1963 ~
LikeLike
ybonesy, I can’t wait to listen to Robert Frost at your link (Comment 25). Haven’t had a chance yet. But when I do, I will come back and comment. He must have been, what, in his latter 70’s in 1947. Looking forward to it. Thanks for adding the link here. It enriches the post. And reminds me about why Mrs. Boykin made us listen to Frost.
Sinclair, that’s a pretty cool tidbit about Frost not being able to see the page, then composing himself and punting in the moment. Talk about pressure! But maybe when you have lived that long, and written that many poems, you do what comes natural.
When I read the poem in your comment (#26), I am just floored by how relevent it is to today. It is moving. Timeless. Such as she was, such as she would become.
LikeLike
Digging around in the Archives of my local library, I found a two-cassette set of Frost reading his own poetry. What a find! I have been treating myself to a few poems here and there today. Hearing his voice and how he emphasizes certain words gives even the most well-known of his poems fresh meaning. Happily, the poem he read at Kennedy’s inauguration is on Side 3.
LikeLike
[…] if called upon to name poets I would have only been able to tick off the most obvious choices: Robert Frost or Emily Dickinson. For most of my life I’ve felt intimidated by poetry. When I’d hear a poem […]
LikeLike
Just a note to all you poetry fans out there — we have our monthly Poetry & Meditation Group tonight and guess who the poet is? Mr. Robert Frost. Ah…I’ll keep you posted. 8)
LikeLike
I’ve been wanting to come back and leave a comment since we had our poetry group with Robert Frost on September 19th. The poems are assigned to us if we choose to read and I was fortunate to be able to read “The Gift Outright” (see Comment #26). We also listened to Robert Frost read his own poetry. It’s wonderful to listen to poets, as well as the members of our poetry group, read the poets’ poems.
I’m going to add the short Frost poem that Liz read in the comments here. For ideas about starting your own poetry group, see Teri’s Guest post in the link in Comment #29. I’m grateful for our monthly poetry group.
BTW, one of our members just moved to Seattle; in fact, she headed out the day after we read Robert Frost. We are hoping she can participate over the phone the next time we meet. If she’s reading this, hope she’s doing well in full view of beautiful Mount Rainier. [See ybonesy’s post — Finally, Seattle (LINK) for some great shots of Mount Rainier from the air]
________________________
Questioning Faces
by Robert Frost
The winter owl banked just in time to pass
And save herself from breaking window glass.
And her wings straining suddenly aspread
Caught color from the last of evening red
In a display of underdown and quill
To glassed-in children at the window sill.
LikeLike
I received a call yesterday from an editor regarding a piece I had submitted. She liked some things about the story, but was absolutely mystified about the conclusion. I ended the essay with three lines from a Robert Frost poem: “…two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” It was such an obvious conclusion to the story, but it made her terribly uncomfortable.
It has given me much pause to think. Does she not know who Robert Frost was? Is that possible? Did she think it would be too high-brow for her readers? I suppose I’ll never know. But it lights a fire under me: *keep*poetry*alive.*
LikeLike
Sinclair, that sure is odd. What were the cues that the editor was uncomfortable with your Frost ending? I’d almost want to call her up and ask her what gives. 8) Isn’t it hard to imagine that someone wouldn’t know who Robert Frost was? Even if people don’t like his poetry, he was such an icon of his time, most know a little about his life.
LikeLike
The editor called it “editorializing.” Instead of keeping the piece exclusively on the doctor who had left an impossible work life to begin a medical practice in a farmhouse, I went a step further and summed up this woman’s choice with Robert’s words. She told me her boss had instantly crossed out the poem with a red pen.
She kept laughing in this odd, tense, belittling way about it. I think she was trying to make me look ridiculous to hide her insecurity that a little good literature had been injected into her world. I’ve never experienced anything like it.
LikeLike
Strange. You would think it would be enough for the editor to simply let you know without all the judgment. So what will happen. Will you write a new ending?
LikeLike
That is to be determined. In addition to a new ending, she had ten (10!) other picky details she wanted included in the piece. It would require an entire re-write. Happily I have been able to draw a deep line in the sand with her regarding my contract and compensation. I am now experiencing silence from her office. Either she’s thinking about it, or I’m being given the brush-off. To tell the truth, I don’t really care. It was a moment (as a writer) that I stood up for myself. It feels great to strengthen that muscle.
LikeLike
Sinclair, your actions show courage on several counts. First, getting your work out there, actively submitting, risking rejection. Then standing up with regard to your writing contract, time, effort, and being fairly compensated. Robert would be proud. 8) Hope you’ll keep us posted as things progress. It’s good to learn how writers tackle these things.
LikeLike
I spoke with my mentor immediately after the phone call with the editor. I listed in detail the things she said (there was a lot more than just the Robert Frost upset). I wanted to make sure I wasn’t overreacting, or being impossibly thin-skinned. I have found (as a writer) that it takes time, experience, and practice to know when to pull the plug. Sometimes, I have to simpy dust myself off and head back to the drawing board.
When you start out with no experience, nothing publishing, and very little on your writing resume, it can be tricky to know when you’ve moved up a wrung on the ladder and no longer have to work like a dog for a few bucks. I was happy that it was so obvious what to do. It usually hasn’t been. As I told my mentor, “Anyone who messes with Robert Frost messes with me!”
LikeLike
Like you, I question whether that quote could honestly be characterized as editorial on your part. But what strikes me about that particular feedback is, let’s say the use of that quote does say something about how you felt about the doctor’s decision—why would that be a negative?
Want to second QM’s comment. You’re clearly not being tossed away. Right on.
LikeLike
Not to further open the can of worms, but…
In the beginning of the essay I told how the doctor had grown increasingly depleted in a large urban clinic: long hours, endless paperwork, a staggering number of patients. It was that underside of medicine that forced her to make a radical change in her life–to take the “road less traveled.” The editor told me it was too negative to talk about what had happened to make the doctor open her own practice in a farmhouse. Their magazine just likes to focus on the positive, not lapse into anything that sounds like whining. She actually said the word “whining.”
I could keep going with what she said, but I don’t want to be called a whiner. Again. I hope other writers can stick this in their back pocket, though. When they get a call from an editor that defies logic, they’ll know they’re not alone.
LikeLike
Wow, to me the journey is the compelling part of the story. How did she get there? Hmmm.
Well, there really are no rules, are there? That’s the lesson in this experience, I think. It’s really what the editor wants, and either you go with it or not. Glad you didn’t compromise, as it just sounds like the story would have been weakened.
LikeLike
[…] post at week’s end, I returned to our Poetry & Meditation group of a few weeks ago. After Robert Frost, homemade rhubarb cookies, and chamomile tea, I asked Teri if I could take another look at her […]
LikeLike
[…] Since we can no longer send the poets postcards, Teri addressed cards to the directors of the Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson homes, thanking them for their Great Effort in keeping poetry […]
LikeLike
[…] author of five books of poetry, will be only the 4th poet to read at a presidential inauguration. Robert Frost was the very first during President John F. Kennedy’s inauguration in 1961. When it came time […]
LikeLike
Liz sent this Robert Frost poem to me in an email this week. I don’t remember reading this one from Robert Frost before. It reminded me of this post from 2008. Frost writes in a traditional style. To me, this Christmas poem doesn’t flow the way Stopping By Woods does (shorter phrases seem to stick with me more). But I like what it says about trees. The poem was first published by Henry Holt & Co.
_______________
A Christmas Circular Letter
By Robert Frost
The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine,
I said, “There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
“I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over.”
“You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north.
He said, “A thousand.”
“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”
He felt some need of softening that to me:
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”
Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.
LikeLike
As I’m doing my Journal 365 practice this year, inspired by poet May Sarton, I delight in the fact that Robert Frost was one of her favorite poets. To her, meeting him was like meeting a god. A god of poetry. What a great influence he had on the poets of his time.
LikeLike