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ROBERT LEE FROST
(March 26, 1874-January 29, 1963)

 

Image courtesy: Photo by Craig Michaud.
This is the Robert Frost Farm in Derry, New Hampshire.This is where he lived from 1900-1911.It was at this farm where he wrote many of his poems including West Running Brook, Tree at my Window, and Mending Wall.

 
 

"The woods are lovely dark and deep,
And I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep"
- Robert Frost


Robert Frost, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry,  was born on 26th March 1874 in San Francisco, California, USA. The U.S. Congress voted Frost a gold medal "in recognition of his poetry which has enriched the culture of the United States and the philosophy of the world". Frost had varied work experience. In early 1890s , he worked in New England as a farmer, an editor and a school teacher, absorbing the materials that were to form the themes of many of his most famous poems. His first volume of poetry, A boy's will, appeared in 1913 while his final collection 'In the clearing' appeared in 1962. Frost died on 29th Jan 1963.

Robert Frost's poetry is identified with New England, particularly the states of Vermont and New Hampshire. Frost found inspiration for many of his finest poems in the region's landscapes, folkways, and speech mannerisms. His poetry is noted for its plain language, conventional forms and graceful style. Many of his earlier poems are as richly developed as his later ones. Frost is sometimes praised for being direct and a straightforward writer. While he is never obscure, he cannot always be read easily. His effects, even at their simplest, depend upon a certain slyness for which the reader must be prepared to. His range of moods in his poetry is rich and varied. He assumes the role of a puckish, homespun, philosopher in 'Mending Wall'. In such poems as 'Design' and 'Bereft', he responds to the terror and tragedy of life. He writes soberly of vaguely threatening aspects of nature in 'Come In' and 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' He wrote:

"My Little horse must think it queer, To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between teh woods and frozen lake, The darkest evening of the year"

"The witch of the Coo" is a comic account of the superstitions of rural New England. In 'Home Burial", it is tragedy centering around a child's death. In "The Hill Wife' Frost shows the loneliness of a rural existence driving a person insane. Robert Frost often appears to write the kind of romantic poetry associated with England and the United States in the 1800s. The romantic poets of 1800s believed people could live in harmony with nature. Frost thought, the purpose of people and nature are never the same and so nature's meanings can never be known. Probing for nature's secrets is futile. Humanity's best chance for serenity does not come from understanding the natural environment but comes from working usefully and productively amid the external forces of nature. Frost often used the theme of 'Significant toil' toil by which people are nourished and sustained. This theme appears in such famous lyrics as 'Birches', 'Apple Picking' and 'Two Tramps in Mud Time'

FEW QUOTES BY ROBERT FROST

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

The brain is a wonderful organ. It starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office.

Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper or your self-confidence.


There are two kinds of teachers: the kind that fill you with so much quail shot that you can't move, and the kind that just gives you a little prod behind and you jump to the skies.

Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can't and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.

Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper or your self-confidence.

At bottom the world isn't a joke. We only joke about it to avoid an issue with someone, to let someone know that we know he's there with his questions; to disarm him by seeming to have heard and done justice to his side of the standing argument.

A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or alovesickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

Robert Frost wrote a new poem entitled "Dedication" for delivery at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy in 1961, but never read it, because the sun's glare upon the snow blinded Frost from seeing the text. Instead, he recited "The Gift Outright" from memory. (find below)

 '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.

Frost takes an ordinary experience and transforms it into a meditative moment.  Frost has philosophical thoughts as apple-picking slides gradually away from merely harvesting fruit to considering how life has been experienced fully but with some regrets and mistakes. The reference to winter coming on feels like the presence of mortalilty.

The Gift Outright

By Robert Frost

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

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"Come In" by Robert Frost

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CULTURE & FESTIVALS


As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music -- hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.

Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.

The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush's breast.

Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went --
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.

But no, I was out for stars;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked;
And I hadn't been.


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