The Poetry of Robert Frost

It’s that time of year—after I’ve shelved my story collections by Poe and Shirley Jackson, etc. (which seem so horrifically October-apropos), that I begin to immerse myself again in the poetry of Robert Frost. Though his poems cover a wide-range of subjects and seasons, it is the poetry of bony trees, apple-picking, star-watching and snow-stepping that move me the most and set my heart to want nothing more than a cold twilight, a cup of black coffee (or apple cider) and a lovely book laid ‘cross my lap. In a profession historically and presently regarded as blithely esoteric, Robert Frost’s brilliance lies in his ability to deftly marry profundity with an Everyman accessibility.

So, as a reverent greeting to November and the holiday season, and in remembrance of the great poet, I’ve included a few of my favorite Frost verses to induce one to stop and contemplate. Whether you live in a woodsy place that will soon see blankets of snow; some sunny, warm resort-like locale; or (like me) in an area with plenty of cold and evergreens, but only rain falling from the grey, I hope these thoughtful lines fill you with the spirit of the season and warm your hearts to both greenleaving nature and humanity.

From After Apple-Picking:

But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
……………………………………….
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.
……………………………………….
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 if no worth.
Once 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 it s coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

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.

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.

From Birches:

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 get 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.
Once could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

And finally, my favorite Frost poem, Directive, which begins:

Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather[…]

And ends with my favorite toast for holiday gatherings:

Here are your waters and your watering place,
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.

Cheers.