Poems List

Desert Places

Desert Places
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
The woods around it have it - it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.
And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less -
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
WIth no expression, nothing to express.
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars - on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
398

But outer Space

But outer Space
But outer Space,
At least this far,
For all the fuss
Of the populace
Stays more popular
Than populous
422

Asking for Roses

Asking for Roses
A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,
With doors that none but the wind ever closes,
Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;
It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.
I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;
'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.'
'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy,
'But one we must ask if we want any roses.'
So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly
There in the hush of the wood that reposes,
And turn and go up to the open door boldly,
And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.
'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?'
'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses.
'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!
'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.
'A word with you, that of the singer recalling--
Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is
A flower unplucked is but left to the falling,
And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.'
We do not loosen our hands' intertwining
(Not caring so very much what she supposes),
There when she comes on us mistily shining
And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.
446

Birches

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-coloured
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,
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.
408

Acquainted with the Night

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.
472

After Apple-Picking

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.
449

A Question

A Question
A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.
353

A Soldier

A Soldier
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,
It is because like men we look too near,
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
Our missiles always make too short an arc.
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on
Further than target ever showed or shone.
464

A Patch of Old Snow

A Patch of Old Snow
There's a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I've forgotten --
If I ever read it.
382

A Line-Storm Song

A Line-Storm Song
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.
The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.
There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.
Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.
736

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Identification and basic context

Robert Frost is widely recognized as an American poet, though he also held Canadian citizenship and spent significant time in England. His birth and death occurred in the United States. He was a prominent figure in 20th-century American literature, known for his distinctive voice and his engagement with themes of rural life and nature.

Childhood and education

Frost's early life was marked by personal loss and a move from California to Massachusetts. He attended Dartmouth College briefly and then Lawrence High School, where he began writing poetry. His formal education was somewhat interrupted, but he was a voracious reader and largely self-taught, developing a deep appreciation for classical literature and the natural world. Early influences included Romantic poets like Wordsworth and Coleridge, as well as the philosophical underpinnings of Transcendentalism.

Literary trajectory

Frost began writing poetry in his teens and early twenties, with his first poems published in magazines like the *Independent* and the *New England Magazine*. His initial attempts to establish himself as a poet in America were met with limited success, leading him to spend several years in England. It was during his time in England that his first two collections, *A Boy's Will* (1913) and *North of Boston* (1914), were published and received critical acclaim. Upon his return to the United States, his reputation grew, and he became a celebrated figure, publishing numerous collections throughout his career.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Major works include *The Road Not Taken* (1916), *Mountain Interval* (1916), *New Hampshire* (1923), *West-Running Brook* (1929), and *A Further Range* (1936). Frost's poetry often focuses on the New England landscape, exploring themes of nature, isolation, the human condition, choices and their consequences, and the tension between individual freedom and societal constraints. He is renowned for his mastery of traditional forms, particularly blank verse and the sonnet, but he infused these forms with a modern sensibility and a conversational, often colloquial, language. His style is characterized by its apparent simplicity, its underlying philosophical depth, and its use of vivid imagery drawn from the natural world. His poetic voice is often that of a wise, reflective observer.

Cultural and historical context

Frost lived and wrote during a period of significant social and technological change in America, including the Progressive Era, World War I, the Great Depression, and World War II. While his work often evokes a timeless, rural setting, it is also subtly responsive to the modern world. He was a contemporary of other major American modernist poets, but his style remained distinct, often seen as more traditional in form yet modern in its psychological exploration. He belonged to no specific literary movement but was influential in bringing a more accessible, yet profound, voice back into American poetry.

Personal life

Frost's personal life was marked by tragedy, including the deaths of children and his wife, Elinor. These experiences undoubtedly informed the elegiac and somber tones present in some of his work. He had a complex relationship with his family and struggled with financial insecurity early in his career. Despite his academic associations later in life, he maintained a strong connection to the land and to the rural communities that inspired him.

Recognition and reception

Robert Frost received immense recognition during his lifetime. He won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry four times and was appointed the Poet Laureate of Vermont. His work was widely read and admired by both the general public and the academic community. He was invited to read his poetry at presidential inaugurations, solidifying his status as a national treasure.

Influences and legacy

Frost was influenced by poets like William Wordsworth and the New England Transcendentalists. His legacy lies in his ability to connect profound philosophical insights with accessible, natural language and imagery. He profoundly influenced subsequent generations of American poets by demonstrating the power of traditional forms to convey modern sensibilities and by re-establishing a vital link between poetry and the American landscape. His work remains widely taught and studied.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Interpretations of Frost's work often highlight the dual nature of his poetry: its surface simplicity masking deeper philosophical complexities. Critics have explored themes of existential choice, the nature of reality, the relationship between humanity and nature, and the psychological dimensions of loneliness and doubt. His poem "The Road Not Taken" is frequently analyzed for its ambiguity and its commentary on the construction of personal narratives.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite his later fame, Frost faced significant rejections early in his career. He worked as a teacher and a farmer before finding widespread success. His strong opinions and sometimes cantankerous personality are also noted aspects of his character. He was known for his intellectual curiosity and his engagement with a wide range of subjects beyond poetry.

Death and memory

Robert Frost passed away in Boston, Massachusetts. His death was mourned as the loss of a major American literary figure. His home in Ripton, Vermont, has been preserved as a museum and educational center, and his works continue to be read, studied, and celebrated for their enduring wisdom and artistry.