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Complete Poems Of Robert Frost, 1949
Complete Poems [Hardcover] [Jan 01, 1964] Frost, Robert
642 pages, Hardcover
First published October 1, 1949
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833 people want to read
About the author
Robert Frost
1,045 books5,084 followersFlinty, moody, plainspoken and deep, Robert Frost was one of America's most popular 20th-century poets. Frost was farming in Derry, New Hampshire when, at the age of 38, he sold the farm, uprooted his family and moved to England, where he devoted himself to his poetry. His first two books of verse, A Boy's Will (1913) and North of Boston (1914), were immediate successes. In 1915 he returned to the United States and continued to write while living in New Hampshire and then Vermont. His pastoral images of apple trees and stone fences -- along with his solitary, man-of-few-words poetic voice -- helped define the modern image of rural New England. Frost's poems include "Mending Wall" ("Good fences make good neighbors"), "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" ("Whose woods these are I think I know"), and perhaps his most famous work, "The Road Not Taken" ("Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- / I took the one less traveled by"). Frost was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for poetry four times: in 1924, 1931, 1937 and 1943. He also served as "Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress" from 1958-59; that position was renamed as Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry (or simply Poet Laureate) in 1986.
Frost recited his poem "The Gift Outright" at the 1961 inauguration of John F. Kennedy... Frost attended both Dartmouth College and Harvard, but did not graduate from either school... Frost preferred traditional rhyme and meter in poetry; his famous dismissal of free verse was, "I'd just as soon play tennis with the net down."
Frost recited his poem "The Gift Outright" at the 1961 inauguration of John F. Kennedy... Frost attended both Dartmouth College and Harvard, but did not graduate from either school... Frost preferred traditional rhyme and meter in poetry; his famous dismissal of free verse was, "I'd just as soon play tennis with the net down."
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 46 reviews
January 28, 2019
Spent my morning with these trying to find RF's critical assessment of fame, how his neighbors come last to recognize him. Turns out, it's not in the Complete, since he was elected Poet Laureate of Vermont (where he'd moved from N.H. forty years before) in 1961, at age 85. Year after he recited from memory at JFK's Inauguration. Wryly, Frost responds "On Being Chosen Poet of Vermont," "Breathes there a bard who isn't moved/ When he finds his verse is understood…By his country and his neighborhood." And that IS the order, friends: The Country will recognize you before your neighbors do, especially yankees, mebbe.
I found this stunning, despite almost five decades of familiarity, many of them teaching certain poems like "Home Burial" and "A Servant to Servants," and of course property feeling in "Stopping by Woods", as well as the role of Edward Thomas and England in the universally misunderstood and admired "Road not Taken," with the most famous aposiopesis in English and American lit, "and I--/ …I took…."
My perusal this morning suggested I had neglected a dozen bird poems I should have noted in my "Birdtalk", like "Never again would Birds' Sounds be the Same," "Directive" about the Phoebes weeping to those not versed in country things, "Minor Bird" possibly about Titmouses or Phoebes, and others. Then, for this Amtrak rider, Boston to Colorado six times, some poems start from trains, "A Passing Glimpse," "Figure in the Doorway," and "On the Heart's Beginning to Cloud the Mind."(One, a train in Utah.) And several on wells, from the prolog "Pasture" to "For Once, then, Something." And even old shoes, "A Record Stride."
In my childhood good fortune, I lived on my grandparents Crockett Ridge, Maine, farm, with a board-covered spring-fed well, complete with frog, in the pasture across the dirt road now named Ralph Richardson after my Gramp. Because it was covered, never did have to clean it,
“I’m going out to clean the pasture spring.
I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away,
And stay to watch the water clear, I may.
I won’t be gone long— You come, too.
I’m going out to fetch the little calf
Who’s standing by its mother. It’s so young
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I won’t be gone long—You come, too.”
I never fetched the calf separate from its mother, Polly, whom I lead with a stick, never to hit, but to slow her under her neck. Polly calved every year, and my grandfather, a butcher from the town store once named for his family, would wait until we boys had left in August to veal the calf.
Above these subjects looms the writer's flexible, ironic, undercutting voice and tone, still uncommon in American poetry, so often elevated, sublime, the "I" growing as s/he speaks.
And may I say, as a lifelong "liberal," community college teacher, supporter of the American Dream and fulfillment thereof, I was amused at RF's parodic political satire mostly from the R--Rep or Right.* His "Departmental" could be a satire on Hillary anthill: "Death's come to Jerry McCormick,/ Our selfless forager Jerry" (372); as could "A Roadside Stand" be a satire on my whole political and professional life, "Where they won't have to think for themselves anymore;/ While greedy good-doers, beneficent beasts of prey,/ Swarm over their lives enforcing benefits/ That are calculated to soothe them out of their wits…"(370).
Frost famously conflicted with the Amherst College liberal President Meiklejohn, whose policies RF termed at the time, "Micklejaundice." But later in life, Frost conceded, "Meiklejohn was right."
Well…I find Frost's poetry filled with nuggets, turns of phrase, sometimes parodic turns, and especially quick changes in tone--rare in any but cummings and Dickinson, who lived down the street from where Frost taught in 1919, and whose life overlapped his by eleven years. Bill Pritchard's literary biography (based on his Ph.D. 24 years earlier) is unsurpassed as a poetic reading, and it contains a photo of Frost regaling my two great, witty Amherst College teachers, Baird (Shakespeare) and Craig (My Freshman Comp and an upperclass Seminar on Dickens and James). As Chair of English, Craig taught my section of daily Freshman English. One morning he asked my class, staring out the window, if any of us saw drumlins out there? No-one did. Craig, "You can't see them if you don't know the word." (See RF, "Drumlin Woodcock."). Both Baird and Craig endorsed my senior honors thesis on Renaissance prosody and tone, directed by the learned and witty Richard Cody.
I rejoice in having had such teachers, but I do wonder at all that I have missed through decades of familiarity. As Baird once wrote me of my grad subject, Andrew Marvell, his "To His Coy Mistress' is much better than familiarity suggests. I would say, this goes for most of Frost--though may I add, his neighbor down the street, of another gender, surpasses him…and all but one or two poets. But both ED and RF expand our New England dialect vocabulary, like "aftermath" for the second mowing.
*Now the Democrats live Frostian: they swept the 2018 elections in the House, because they embraced Frost, "I go to school to youth to learn the Future."
--"What Fifty Said," from West-Running Brook (1928)
The Democrats clearly support Frost's (Protestant?) work ethic, as in his first book, A Boy's Will, on the mower leaving Asclepias Tuberosa, wild "Butterfly Weed," the only flowers for the "(be-)'wildered butterfly" trying to find the flowers that were there the day before. Frost ends that one, "Men work together," I told him from my heart,
"Whether they work together or apart."
Now Frost's original Republican sympathies would support work, even workers, whom Corporate America glories in laying off or replacing with robots, whereas arguably the managers could most benefit by robotic, computer-feedback, replacement. But I have not heard of a manager making the tough decision to replace him/her-self.
By the way, I have dozens of Butterfly Weed plants in my backyard beyond the mowed part of the field, where it won't grow--takes a month, peaks near July 4 here in SE Massachusetts. For a picture,
see my Parodies Lost FB page.
I found this stunning, despite almost five decades of familiarity, many of them teaching certain poems like "Home Burial" and "A Servant to Servants," and of course property feeling in "Stopping by Woods", as well as the role of Edward Thomas and England in the universally misunderstood and admired "Road not Taken," with the most famous aposiopesis in English and American lit, "and I--/ …I took…."
My perusal this morning suggested I had neglected a dozen bird poems I should have noted in my "Birdtalk", like "Never again would Birds' Sounds be the Same," "Directive" about the Phoebes weeping to those not versed in country things, "Minor Bird" possibly about Titmouses or Phoebes, and others. Then, for this Amtrak rider, Boston to Colorado six times, some poems start from trains, "A Passing Glimpse," "Figure in the Doorway," and "On the Heart's Beginning to Cloud the Mind."(One, a train in Utah.) And several on wells, from the prolog "Pasture" to "For Once, then, Something." And even old shoes, "A Record Stride."
In my childhood good fortune, I lived on my grandparents Crockett Ridge, Maine, farm, with a board-covered spring-fed well, complete with frog, in the pasture across the dirt road now named Ralph Richardson after my Gramp. Because it was covered, never did have to clean it,
“I’m going out to clean the pasture spring.
I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away,
And stay to watch the water clear, I may.
I won’t be gone long— You come, too.
I’m going out to fetch the little calf
Who’s standing by its mother. It’s so young
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I won’t be gone long—You come, too.”
I never fetched the calf separate from its mother, Polly, whom I lead with a stick, never to hit, but to slow her under her neck. Polly calved every year, and my grandfather, a butcher from the town store once named for his family, would wait until we boys had left in August to veal the calf.
Above these subjects looms the writer's flexible, ironic, undercutting voice and tone, still uncommon in American poetry, so often elevated, sublime, the "I" growing as s/he speaks.
And may I say, as a lifelong "liberal," community college teacher, supporter of the American Dream and fulfillment thereof, I was amused at RF's parodic political satire mostly from the R--Rep or Right.* His "Departmental" could be a satire on Hillary anthill: "Death's come to Jerry McCormick,/ Our selfless forager Jerry" (372); as could "A Roadside Stand" be a satire on my whole political and professional life, "Where they won't have to think for themselves anymore;/ While greedy good-doers, beneficent beasts of prey,/ Swarm over their lives enforcing benefits/ That are calculated to soothe them out of their wits…"(370).
Frost famously conflicted with the Amherst College liberal President Meiklejohn, whose policies RF termed at the time, "Micklejaundice." But later in life, Frost conceded, "Meiklejohn was right."
Well…I find Frost's poetry filled with nuggets, turns of phrase, sometimes parodic turns, and especially quick changes in tone--rare in any but cummings and Dickinson, who lived down the street from where Frost taught in 1919, and whose life overlapped his by eleven years. Bill Pritchard's literary biography (based on his Ph.D. 24 years earlier) is unsurpassed as a poetic reading, and it contains a photo of Frost regaling my two great, witty Amherst College teachers, Baird (Shakespeare) and Craig (My Freshman Comp and an upperclass Seminar on Dickens and James). As Chair of English, Craig taught my section of daily Freshman English. One morning he asked my class, staring out the window, if any of us saw drumlins out there? No-one did. Craig, "You can't see them if you don't know the word." (See RF, "Drumlin Woodcock."). Both Baird and Craig endorsed my senior honors thesis on Renaissance prosody and tone, directed by the learned and witty Richard Cody.
I rejoice in having had such teachers, but I do wonder at all that I have missed through decades of familiarity. As Baird once wrote me of my grad subject, Andrew Marvell, his "To His Coy Mistress' is much better than familiarity suggests. I would say, this goes for most of Frost--though may I add, his neighbor down the street, of another gender, surpasses him…and all but one or two poets. But both ED and RF expand our New England dialect vocabulary, like "aftermath" for the second mowing.
*Now the Democrats live Frostian: they swept the 2018 elections in the House, because they embraced Frost, "I go to school to youth to learn the Future."
--"What Fifty Said," from West-Running Brook (1928)
The Democrats clearly support Frost's (Protestant?) work ethic, as in his first book, A Boy's Will, on the mower leaving Asclepias Tuberosa, wild "Butterfly Weed," the only flowers for the "(be-)'wildered butterfly" trying to find the flowers that were there the day before. Frost ends that one, "Men work together," I told him from my heart,
"Whether they work together or apart."
Now Frost's original Republican sympathies would support work, even workers, whom Corporate America glories in laying off or replacing with robots, whereas arguably the managers could most benefit by robotic, computer-feedback, replacement. But I have not heard of a manager making the tough decision to replace him/her-self.
By the way, I have dozens of Butterfly Weed plants in my backyard beyond the mowed part of the field, where it won't grow--takes a month, peaks near July 4 here in SE Massachusetts. For a picture,
see my Parodies Lost FB page.
February 9, 2019
I've always loved Robert Frost, even if I knew only his most popular crumpets of verse, like the hyper-quoted and often-tattooed
"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."
So I decided to methodically read his entire collection of poms, a bit at a time, and I've been doing it steadily since last year. Few other poems command such a strong response in me, even if I did stumble upon his love of form and relatively old-fashioned style every now and then. :)
"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."
So I decided to methodically read his entire collection of poms, a bit at a time, and I've been doing it steadily since last year. Few other poems command such a strong response in me, even if I did stumble upon his love of form and relatively old-fashioned style every now and then. :)
April 21, 2018
This book was bought in error and is not the complete works of Robert Frost, just a selection.
April 16, 2015
April is National Poetry Month and, in honor of that fact, I have decided to re-read (or at least skim) and review some of my favorites. For me, that always starts with Robert Frost.
I discovered the poetry of Robert Frost, as I discovered so many things, in college. In my Speech class, one of my assignments required me to deliver a speech including favorite poems. I didn't really have favorite poems. As I searched my memory for what I might use, I remembered the inauguration of John F. Kennedy several years before. The school that I attended at the time had gathered all of the students into the auditorium in assembly and played the inauguration for us on television. Thus, I saw the poet with the shock of white hair, on that snow-covered day, delivering his poem as part of the ceremony. And, all those years later, I had an epiphany. I thought, "Ah ha! I'll do Robert Frost."
But, of course, I didn't really know much about Robert Frost and I didn't have a favorite poem of his, so I had to do a little research.
It didn't take long for me to feel a connection with his poetry. I found that it was based on rural themes and was about ordinary people, two things that were very familiar to me, having grown up in the country on a farm. Moreover, it was written in a deceptively simple manner, in vernacular that was easily understood. The settings of his poems were mostly in New England and I had grown up in the South, but it all felt very comfortable and homey to me.
That was when I first read Complete Poems of Robert Frost. I have returned to it many, many times in the years since. My book's cover and pages have water stains and there are teeth marks from a long-dead dog who took a liking to it and gnawed away one corner of the hardback. There are post-it notes stuck throughout the book, marking favorite poems. It is a book that has been loved almost to death but still it hangs together, even if in fragile condition.
There are many favorites among the poems of this book, but I return again and again to two; one because it reminds me of my own childhood when I was a rider of tree saplings and the other because it states so very simply much of what I believe.
The first one is Birches. It describes a boy swinging on birches that had been bent down by ice storms. It speaks of the joy which he derives from this simple act, this boy "too far from town to learn baseball, whose only play was what he found himself." The poet admits that he, too, was once a "swinger of birches." And the poem ends:
The other poem that means a lot to me, especially since I've become a habitat gardener is The Tuft of Flowers. It describes the poet going to turn grass that has been mowed for hay and seeing a butterfly flitting here and there searching for some remembered stand of flowers, now gone. As he watches the butterfly, it draws his eye to a patch of flowers the scythe had spared.
And as the poem ends, the poet feels a kinship with the mower, "a spirit kindred to my own." He had previously felt alone in the field but now he sees that we are all in this together - the mower, the turner of the grass, the butterfly, and in silent conversation with the mower who has now moved on, he says:
A deceptively simple poem with a deeper meaning for those who take the time to find that "tuft of flowers." That was Robert Frost. That's why I love his poems.
I discovered the poetry of Robert Frost, as I discovered so many things, in college. In my Speech class, one of my assignments required me to deliver a speech including favorite poems. I didn't really have favorite poems. As I searched my memory for what I might use, I remembered the inauguration of John F. Kennedy several years before. The school that I attended at the time had gathered all of the students into the auditorium in assembly and played the inauguration for us on television. Thus, I saw the poet with the shock of white hair, on that snow-covered day, delivering his poem as part of the ceremony. And, all those years later, I had an epiphany. I thought, "Ah ha! I'll do Robert Frost."
But, of course, I didn't really know much about Robert Frost and I didn't have a favorite poem of his, so I had to do a little research.
It didn't take long for me to feel a connection with his poetry. I found that it was based on rural themes and was about ordinary people, two things that were very familiar to me, having grown up in the country on a farm. Moreover, it was written in a deceptively simple manner, in vernacular that was easily understood. The settings of his poems were mostly in New England and I had grown up in the South, but it all felt very comfortable and homey to me.
That was when I first read Complete Poems of Robert Frost. I have returned to it many, many times in the years since. My book's cover and pages have water stains and there are teeth marks from a long-dead dog who took a liking to it and gnawed away one corner of the hardback. There are post-it notes stuck throughout the book, marking favorite poems. It is a book that has been loved almost to death but still it hangs together, even if in fragile condition.
There are many favorites among the poems of this book, but I return again and again to two; one because it reminds me of my own childhood when I was a rider of tree saplings and the other because it states so very simply much of what I believe.
The first one is Birches. It describes a boy swinging on birches that had been bent down by ice storms. It speaks of the joy which he derives from this simple act, this boy "too far from town to learn baseball, whose only play was what he found himself." The poet admits that he, too, was once a "swinger of birches." And the poem ends:
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 other poem that means a lot to me, especially since I've become a habitat gardener is The Tuft of Flowers. It describes the poet going to turn grass that has been mowed for hay and seeing a butterfly flitting here and there searching for some remembered stand of flowers, now gone. As he watches the butterfly, it draws his eye to a patch of flowers the scythe had spared.
A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
The mower in the dew had love them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him,
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn...
And as the poem ends, the poet feels a kinship with the mower, "a spirit kindred to my own." He had previously felt alone in the field but now he sees that we are all in this together - the mower, the turner of the grass, the butterfly, and in silent conversation with the mower who has now moved on, he says:
"Men work together, I told him from the heart,
Whether they work together or apart."
A deceptively simple poem with a deeper meaning for those who take the time to find that "tuft of flowers." That was Robert Frost. That's why I love his poems.
October 21, 2021
About Frost: At 25, a Harvard drop out named Robert Frost was gifted a farm in Derry, NH by his grandfather where he’d live and write poetry for the next ten years until moving to England in 1912.
By the time of his arrival in England, Frost had accumulated 20 years of writing poetry. A year later he published his first book of poems: A Boy’s Will.
Another year later Frost’s second book, North of Boston, was published. Both were written mostly during his 10 year stay in the Derry Farm.
In 1915 shortly after WW1 began, Frost returned to the U.S.—the following year his third book, Mountain Interval was published.
All three of these are present in their entirety in this volume.
About his poetry: Frost‘s poetry is beautiful. It is simple, profound, and relatable. He writes with conversational tone built into every poem, saying a lot with very few words. This does make his poems slow to read (the subtle nuances are easy to miss). The simplicity of language and profundity of his verse allows attentive readers to find new things, new meanings, and new ideas previously missed.
In the first two books Frost speaks on subjects ranging from nature, to farmhands, or cutting grass and plowing fields, tufts of flowers, dying farmhands, poor weather and it’s impacts of the human psyche, and even Fear itself.
Frost’s poems, however, don’t only speak about the life of a farmer. His poems are also philosophical, thought provoking, relatable to the masses, and posses keen, poignant, and vivid observations.
Definitely a poet I’d recommend to just about anyone!
By the time of his arrival in England, Frost had accumulated 20 years of writing poetry. A year later he published his first book of poems: A Boy’s Will.
Another year later Frost’s second book, North of Boston, was published. Both were written mostly during his 10 year stay in the Derry Farm.
In 1915 shortly after WW1 began, Frost returned to the U.S.—the following year his third book, Mountain Interval was published.
All three of these are present in their entirety in this volume.
About his poetry: Frost‘s poetry is beautiful. It is simple, profound, and relatable. He writes with conversational tone built into every poem, saying a lot with very few words. This does make his poems slow to read (the subtle nuances are easy to miss). The simplicity of language and profundity of his verse allows attentive readers to find new things, new meanings, and new ideas previously missed.
In the first two books Frost speaks on subjects ranging from nature, to farmhands, or cutting grass and plowing fields, tufts of flowers, dying farmhands, poor weather and it’s impacts of the human psyche, and even Fear itself.
Frost’s poems, however, don’t only speak about the life of a farmer. His poems are also philosophical, thought provoking, relatable to the masses, and posses keen, poignant, and vivid observations.
Definitely a poet I’d recommend to just about anyone!
March 5, 2018
The night light
She always had to burn a light
Beside her attic bed at night
It gave bad dreams and broken sleep,
But helped the Lord her soul to keep
Good gloom on her was thrown away.
It is on me by night or day,
Who have, as I suppose, ahead
The darkest of it still to dread.
She always had to burn a light
Beside her attic bed at night
It gave bad dreams and broken sleep,
But helped the Lord her soul to keep
Good gloom on her was thrown away.
It is on me by night or day,
Who have, as I suppose, ahead
The darkest of it still to dread.
January 18, 2024
Read 2/3 of it, lost some motivation through some of the longer short stories. I'm drawn in by Frost's use of meter and the settings and experiences he describes. Many of my favorites were from A Boys Will, though some are from much later in this volume.
February 24, 2018
This was an interesting exercise in just taking in poetry and looking at a poet's life from start to finish. I also did this with Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Collected Works" a little while back, and I have to say that a few poems a day are a wonderful addition to my daily reading regimen. Going through this omnibus cover to cover also had no small impact on my own poetry writing, and I'm glad to have gotten away from the rut my own work was in by looking at the world around me through the borrowed lens of Frost's love of nature. A better student of poetry would probably have all sorts of things to say about how his style grew and evolved over his life, but I found myself enjoying his early work as much as his late, and experienced no great change in the beautiful quality of his insights and language.
April 15, 2014
I am rating this although I didn't read the entire book before it had to go back to the library. (I estimate that I read 75%)
My previous experience with Robert Frost's poetry has been mostly of his early poems, so I was delighted to find some new favorites in the later ones. Late or early, my preference is still for the shorter poems, although my admiration for his longer poems is growing with exposure. I think that if I enjoyed those longer poems more I would have given this book 5 stars!
My previous experience with Robert Frost's poetry has been mostly of his early poems, so I was delighted to find some new favorites in the later ones. Late or early, my preference is still for the shorter poems, although my admiration for his longer poems is growing with exposure. I think that if I enjoyed those longer poems more I would have given this book 5 stars!
Read
July 14, 2015Some of his story poems are really enjoyable. It's like dropping into the middle of a conversation and having to pick up the pieces to figure out what is happening. Others of them are tedious. I found some new ones from him that I enjoyed; but mostly reading him requires a lot of quiet which is not one of my luxuries.
February 17, 2009
My daughter came to visit yesterday bringing this back. She loaned it to one of her friends who returned it to her only two weeks ago. I think it's got more dog-ears now and I'm pretty sure it has acquired a coffee stain since the last time I opened it.
January 4, 2020
After looking around for a quick Frost fix, I found this in my local library.
This version i found is really old and smells amazing! Full of all the really good Frost that you can dissect in a million different ways. Good times.
This version i found is really old and smells amazing! Full of all the really good Frost that you can dissect in a million different ways. Good times.
May 27, 2008
Great book for the bath with a glass of wine
March 21, 2009
One of the best poets living or dead.
April 11, 2010
I pick up and read a one or two a night. Into my Own is one of my favorites.
March 14, 2015
Read Frost, over and over. He captures the moments in life. The beauty, the horror, the indecision of a moment.
Don't look into his biography; it'll ruin it.
Don't look into his biography; it'll ruin it.
April 29, 2016
Of course, not all the poems in a complete collection are going to be amazing. But enough of these are to merit 5 stars. It should be on the shelf of every poetry lover.
July 17, 2016
If not the greatest of modern poets, I don't think many would argue regarding his accessibility. Frost is certainly the poet that resonates most with me.
May 30, 2019
This was a good book, I guess I am just not that into his longer poems.
May 31, 2024
I have read a few other poetry collection from Mr. Frost and I've enjoyed them all. Here is my favorite poem from this book.
This was an emblematic poem that explores the concept of choice and its repercussions. The poem begins with the poet standing in a yellow wood, facing two roads that diverge. The author examines both roads, trying to foresee where each one might lead. Ultimately, the speaker chooses the road 'less traveled by,' signifying the choice of a path that is unconventional or less followed. The final lines suggest a sense of satisfaction or affirmation, indicating that this choice has 'made all the difference.' This poem I thought could be interpreted as a celebration of individualism and nonconformity, encouraging readers to make bold, independent choices in their lives.
This was an emblematic poem that explores the concept of choice and its repercussions. The poem begins with the poet standing in a yellow wood, facing two roads that diverge. The author examines both roads, trying to foresee where each one might lead. Ultimately, the speaker chooses the road 'less traveled by,' signifying the choice of a path that is unconventional or less followed. The final lines suggest a sense of satisfaction or affirmation, indicating that this choice has 'made all the difference.' This poem I thought could be interpreted as a celebration of individualism and nonconformity, encouraging readers to make bold, independent choices in their lives.
August 24, 2025
“Tell me about it if it’s something human. Let me into your grief.” - Robert Frost.
Read this one as a personal curriculum focus for August. I love the way Robert Frost captures the gentle and wild nature of the world around him.
This particular edition was my grandfather’s copy from the 60’s. I felt I was reading along with him, finding the pages he dog-eared, lines he underlined. It was like a scavenger hunt of notes to me from his younger self.
Read this one as a personal curriculum focus for August. I love the way Robert Frost captures the gentle and wild nature of the world around him.
This particular edition was my grandfather’s copy from the 60’s. I felt I was reading along with him, finding the pages he dog-eared, lines he underlined. It was like a scavenger hunt of notes to me from his younger self.
May 16, 2024
Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air
Read
June 5, 2024Good.
I like Frost but I don’t think he weighs up to Whitman, as many claim. It is a high target to hit, and in missing it his poetry isn’t bad or particularly flawed.
I like Frost but I don’t think he weighs up to Whitman, as many claim. It is a high target to hit, and in missing it his poetry isn’t bad or particularly flawed.
September 8, 2015
Nothing to say to all those marriages!
She had made three herself to three of his.
The score was even for them, three to three.
But come to die she found she cared so much:
She thought of children in a burial row;
Three children in a burial row were sad.
One man's three women in a burial row
Somehow made her impatient with the man.
And so she said to Laban, "You have done
A good deal right; don't do the last thing wrong.
Don't make me lie with those two other women."
Laban said, No, he would not make her lie
With anyone but that she had a mind to,
If that was how she felt, of course, he said.
She went her way. But Laban having caught
This glimpse of lingering person in Eliza,
And anxious to make all he could of it
With something he remembered in himself,
Tried to think how he could exceed his promise,
And give good measure to the dead, though thankless.
If that was how she felt, he kept repeating.
His first thought under pressure was a grave
In a new boughten grave plot by herself,
Under he didn't care how great a stone:
He'd sell a yoke of steers to pay for it.
And weren't there special cemetery flowers,
That, once grief sets to growing, grief may rest;
The flowers will go on with grief awhile,
And no one seem neglecting or neglected?
A prudent grief will not despise such aids.
He thought of evergreen and everlasting.
And then he had a thought worth many of these.
Somewhere must be the grave of the young boy
Who married her for playmate more than helpmate,
And sometimes laughed at what it was between them.
How would she like to sleep her last with him?
Where was his grave? Did Laban know his name?
He found the grave a town or two away,
The headstone cut with John, Beloved Husband,
Beside it room reserved; the say a sister's;
A never-married sister's of that husband,
Whether Eliza would be welcome there.
The dead was bound to silence: ask the sister.
So Laban saw the sister, and, saying nothing
Of where Eliza wanted not to lie,
And who had thought to lay her with her first love,
Begged simply for the grave. The sister's face
Fell all in wrinkles of responsibility.
She wanted to do right. She'd have to think.
Laban was old and poor, yet seemed to care;
And she was old and poor—but she cared, too.
They sat. She cast one dull, old look at him,
Then turned him out to go on other errands
She said he might attend to in the village,
While she made up her mind how much she cared—
And how much Laban cared—and why he cared,
(She made shrewd eyes to see where he came in.)
She'd looked Eliza up her second time,
A widow at her second husband's grave,
And offered her a home to rest awhile
Before she went the poor man's widow's way,
Housekeeping for the next man out of wedlock.
She and Eliza had been friends through all.
Who was she to judge marriage in a world
Whose Bible's so confused up in marriage counsel?
The sister had not come across this Laban;
A decent product of life's ironing-out;
She must not keep him waiting. Time would press
Between the death day and the funeral day.
So when she saw him coming in the street
She hurried her decision to be ready
To meet him with his answer at the door.
Laban had known about what it would be
From the way she had set her poor old mouth,
To do, as she had put it, what was right.
She gave it through the screen door closed between them:
"No, not with John. There wouldn't be no sense.
Eliza's had too many other men."
Laban was forced to fall back on his plan
To buy Eliza a plot to lie alone in:
Which gives him for himself a choice of lots
When his time comes to die and settle down.
She had made three herself to three of his.
The score was even for them, three to three.
But come to die she found she cared so much:
She thought of children in a burial row;
Three children in a burial row were sad.
One man's three women in a burial row
Somehow made her impatient with the man.
And so she said to Laban, "You have done
A good deal right; don't do the last thing wrong.
Don't make me lie with those two other women."
Laban said, No, he would not make her lie
With anyone but that she had a mind to,
If that was how she felt, of course, he said.
She went her way. But Laban having caught
This glimpse of lingering person in Eliza,
And anxious to make all he could of it
With something he remembered in himself,
Tried to think how he could exceed his promise,
And give good measure to the dead, though thankless.
If that was how she felt, he kept repeating.
His first thought under pressure was a grave
In a new boughten grave plot by herself,
Under he didn't care how great a stone:
He'd sell a yoke of steers to pay for it.
And weren't there special cemetery flowers,
That, once grief sets to growing, grief may rest;
The flowers will go on with grief awhile,
And no one seem neglecting or neglected?
A prudent grief will not despise such aids.
He thought of evergreen and everlasting.
And then he had a thought worth many of these.
Somewhere must be the grave of the young boy
Who married her for playmate more than helpmate,
And sometimes laughed at what it was between them.
How would she like to sleep her last with him?
Where was his grave? Did Laban know his name?
He found the grave a town or two away,
The headstone cut with John, Beloved Husband,
Beside it room reserved; the say a sister's;
A never-married sister's of that husband,
Whether Eliza would be welcome there.
The dead was bound to silence: ask the sister.
So Laban saw the sister, and, saying nothing
Of where Eliza wanted not to lie,
And who had thought to lay her with her first love,
Begged simply for the grave. The sister's face
Fell all in wrinkles of responsibility.
She wanted to do right. She'd have to think.
Laban was old and poor, yet seemed to care;
And she was old and poor—but she cared, too.
They sat. She cast one dull, old look at him,
Then turned him out to go on other errands
She said he might attend to in the village,
While she made up her mind how much she cared—
And how much Laban cared—and why he cared,
(She made shrewd eyes to see where he came in.)
She'd looked Eliza up her second time,
A widow at her second husband's grave,
And offered her a home to rest awhile
Before she went the poor man's widow's way,
Housekeeping for the next man out of wedlock.
She and Eliza had been friends through all.
Who was she to judge marriage in a world
Whose Bible's so confused up in marriage counsel?
The sister had not come across this Laban;
A decent product of life's ironing-out;
She must not keep him waiting. Time would press
Between the death day and the funeral day.
So when she saw him coming in the street
She hurried her decision to be ready
To meet him with his answer at the door.
Laban had known about what it would be
From the way she had set her poor old mouth,
To do, as she had put it, what was right.
She gave it through the screen door closed between them:
"No, not with John. There wouldn't be no sense.
Eliza's had too many other men."
Laban was forced to fall back on his plan
To buy Eliza a plot to lie alone in:
Which gives him for himself a choice of lots
When his time comes to die and settle down.
December 10, 2017
You would think one day I would learn my lesson about poetry: I'm just not into it. I say this every time I read a poetry book, and it's true every time. Despite glowing recommendations, from friends or websites, I try really hard to like poetry but can never seem to get past the stubbornness I've always seemed to hold about works of poetry. It's becoming more and more a futile task.
In this case, one of my friends is a huge Robert Frost fan—to the point that his ex-girlfriend once thought he'd given her a Frost poem as a gift when it was really one that he wrote for her—and I value his book recommendations highly. I told him I wanted to find some poetry that I really connected with, and he, predictably, suggested Frost; so I searched for and discovered this collection of Complete Poems of Robert Frost.
Unfortunately, my prevailing notions on poetry are still prevailing, and this collection was boring and frustrating for me. I found a few poems here and there that I enjoyed, but overall, Frost's poems all sound the same to me and have the same general subjects and tones, rendering them dull and forgettable surrounded by so many of the same types of poems.
I say that I should give up poetry for good, and I don't ever know if I mean that. I'd like to find a poet whose work I do really enjoy and connect with, but, regrettably, Robert Frost does not appear to be that poet.
In this case, one of my friends is a huge Robert Frost fan—to the point that his ex-girlfriend once thought he'd given her a Frost poem as a gift when it was really one that he wrote for her—and I value his book recommendations highly. I told him I wanted to find some poetry that I really connected with, and he, predictably, suggested Frost; so I searched for and discovered this collection of Complete Poems of Robert Frost.
Unfortunately, my prevailing notions on poetry are still prevailing, and this collection was boring and frustrating for me. I found a few poems here and there that I enjoyed, but overall, Frost's poems all sound the same to me and have the same general subjects and tones, rendering them dull and forgettable surrounded by so many of the same types of poems.
I say that I should give up poetry for good, and I don't ever know if I mean that. I'd like to find a poet whose work I do really enjoy and connect with, but, regrettably, Robert Frost does not appear to be that poet.
Read
May 13, 2018There's a drop off after New Hampshire, as he gets too cute in his short poems and struggles to deal with big concepts in politics and religion in the long ones. But up until then he's flat-out great at revealing the ambiguity of common sense, constructing surfaces that appear straightforward and totally different when viewed from opposing angles. He shows rural Northeastern ways of thinking are as multifarious as those of Pound/Stevens/WCW's (currently) more fashionable milieus, and if they all had stronger ideas, they all had dumber ones too.
Top ten:
1. New Hampshire
2. Mending Wall
3. The Death of the Hired Man
4. The Runaway
5. 'Out, Out—'
6. My November Guest
7. The Road Not Taken
8. Birches
9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
10. The Star-Splitter
Top ten:
1. New Hampshire
2. Mending Wall
3. The Death of the Hired Man
4. The Runaway
5. 'Out, Out—'
6. My November Guest
7. The Road Not Taken
8. Birches
9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
10. The Star-Splitter
August 4, 2016
In the UK, English teachers don't tend to teach a lot of American poetry - it's usually reserved for university education. I'll tell you, though, they could go further and do worse than to introduce some Robert Frost poetry into the curriculum.
Disclaimer: I'm no poetry buff. I do, however, like a bit of poetry every now and then and I find Robert Frost's poems very accessible and utterly beautiful in their imagery. They remind me of Norman Rockwell paintings. Some of his poems are pretty long but many are very short and he manages to pack so much narration and world-building into just a few lines. It's really quite incredible.
Disclaimer: I'm no poetry buff. I do, however, like a bit of poetry every now and then and I find Robert Frost's poems very accessible and utterly beautiful in their imagery. They remind me of Norman Rockwell paintings. Some of his poems are pretty long but many are very short and he manages to pack so much narration and world-building into just a few lines. It's really quite incredible.
July 19, 2021
This was a good read, though it was nice to take it very slowly to try to savor the poems. Some of the poems went right over my head and made either no sense to me or no impact. But other ones were quite beautiful and thought-provoking. I especially loved his descriptions of nature, he was a great observer.
The two plays at the end, A Masque of Reason and A Masque of Mercy, were interesting but I know there was a lot I missed. That is pretty common with me and plays, there are a lot of nuances that go over my head until I have become more familiar with it. They are very short plays at least.
The two plays at the end, A Masque of Reason and A Masque of Mercy, were interesting but I know there was a lot I missed. That is pretty common with me and plays, there are a lot of nuances that go over my head until I have become more familiar with it. They are very short plays at least.
October 28, 2018
"STORM FEAR
When the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts with snow
The lower chamber windows on the east,
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,
'Come out! Come out!' -
It costs no inward struggle not to go,
Ah, no!
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away,
And my heart owns a doubt
Whether 'tis in us to arise with day
And save ourselves unaided."
When the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts with snow
The lower chamber windows on the east,
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,
'Come out! Come out!' -
It costs no inward struggle not to go,
Ah, no!
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away,
And my heart owns a doubt
Whether 'tis in us to arise with day
And save ourselves unaided."
February 24, 2017
In elementary school, my teacher hung up a beautiful poster printed with "Acquainted with the Night." The background picture was a dark dreamy urban silhouette, lit by a single street lamp. Sadly, we never covered Robert Frost in class but I read the poem to myself every morning and looked for Mr. Frost's poetry in our school library. I'm nearly thirty now, and as cliche as it is, I still unashamedly love curling up with this book on cold nights. I read "My November Guest" every autumn!
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