Showing posts with label Robert Frost. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Robert Frost. Show all posts

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Poetry: Robert Frost, November & A Walk

In 1992, I visited Robert Frost's farm in Derry, New Hampshire during an uncommonly cold and stormy August day. I remember thinking that it was the perfect day to trek through the trails that Frost walked. Autumn hit early that year while my husband and I drove through New England and witnessed nature and Fall in all its splendor, especially up north by beautiful Vermont.

Today we're experiencing a typical November day. It's very windy and there are storm clouds one minute and sun patches the next. Last night's rain storms washed away a lot of the leaves and all I can see out of my front window are a few yellow leaves hanging from the branches of giant trees. Days like these always make me reach for Robert Frost.

My November Guest

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.


A Late Walk

When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words.

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth,
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.

Taken from: The Poetry of Robert Frost: The collected poems, complete and unabridged edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Part I - A Boy's Will: 1913