No matter where I am in my life, I find myself repeatedly drawn to the poetry of Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson. Any other Dickinson-Frost-philes out there?

I like Frost, but I've never gotten into Dickinson.

They are very different but I guess I enjoy their contrasts.

I'm like Seanahan. I like Frost but am not really bothered about Dickinson.

Frost actually wrote my favourite poem.
You can take a guess at what it is.

Fire and Ice? That's one I particularly like anyway.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

I am guessing "The Road Not Taken" (my all time favorite). But, since I love so many of his poems, may I please have some backup guesses? I also love "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" and "Birches" - but "Mending Wall" is way up there.

Frost's Road Not Taken ends with this profoundly beautiful statement about life:

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference.

And here is the lovely ending of Stopping by Woods...

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.

Birches has such tender descriptions of childhood memories. Here is how Frost ends that one:

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.

So, BobHale, which is your favorite?
I really love Fire and Ice, also, arnie. I do think that Robert Frost had incredible talent!

" .... something there is that does not love a wall -- that wants it down ... "


and ...

Two Tramps In Mud Time ... " they wanted to take my job for pay !!"

Jerry - Thank you for the "Two Tramps" reference. Somehow, I was not familiar with that poem, but looked it up and am stunned by its rich description of nature - both human and environmental. I am thrilled to have another bit of Frost's genius to savor - a Frost (sound) "byte" - bad pun, I know, but I couldn't resist.

Yep, nailed it. Fire and Ice it is. I've never seen anything that sums up the extremes of human emotion so succinctly.

quote:

Originally posted by elledee:
No matter where I am in my life, I find myself repeatedly drawn to the poetry of Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson. Any other Dickinson-Frost-philes out there?

I would say I repeatedly find my may back to Tennyson's Ulysses, and there is always something new I pick up on every time I read it... pause to read it... and I never realized how amazing the line "Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades for ever and for ever when I move.". I don't experience that with the writings of Frost. They are good, but repeated readings don't seem to add that kind of depth.

I agree that Tennyson has more depth to his writing. I think of him and both poet and playwright. Perhaps I am partially drawn to the simplicity of Frost. But, now you have me longing to read some of Tennyson's works. Another of my favorites is Herman Hesse - especially Narcissus and Goldman.

I've always loved Frost's poems, too. There is a lovely, illustrated picture book of "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" that I read to my son when he was young - it was a lovely bedtime book, and I truly adore the illustrations by Susan Jeffers. They are absolutely breathtaking, and entirely appropriate for tonight.

quote:

Originally posted by Caterwauller:
I've always loved Frost's poems, too. There is a lovely, illustrated picture book of "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" that I read to my son when he was young - it was a lovely bedtime book, and I truly adore the illustrations by Susan Jeffers. They are absolutely breathtaking, and entirely appropriate for tonight.

What a beautiful way present poetry to your child! I'll have to check it out. Are you having winter wonderland weather?

Here is an Emily Dickinson poem - in honor of Mother's Day...

NATURE - THE GENTLEST MOTHER

Nature, the gentlest mother,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest or the waywardest,
Her admonition mild

In forest and the hill
By traveller is heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel
Or too impetuous bird.

How fair her conversation,
A summer afternoon,--
Her household, her assembly;
And when the sun goes down

Her voice among the aisles
Incites the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.

When all the children sleep
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light her lamps;
Then, bending from the sky

With infinite affection
And infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.

Thank you elledee. How lovely.

Received a few poems on the occasion of Mother's Day-- but on the subject of flowers-- from poetry.org. Here's a pretty thing by Charles Wright-- and below it another wonderful Robert Frost poem........

From LITTLEFOOT
by Charles Wright

19

This is the bird hour, peony blossoms falling bigger than wren hearts
On the cutting border's railroad ties,
Sparrows and other feathery things
Homing from one hedge to the next,
late May, gnat-floating evening.

Is love stronger than unlove?
Only the unloved know.
And the mockingbird, whose heart is cloned and colorless.

And who's this tiny chirper,
lost in the loose leaves of the weeping cherry tree?
His song is not more than three feet off the ground, and singular,
And going nowhere.
Listen. It sounds a lot like you, hermane.
It sounds like me.

Reprinted from Littlefoot © 2007 by Charles Wright, by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Learn more about FSG poets at fsgpoetry.com.


TO EARTHWARD
by Robert Frost


Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air

That crossed me from sweet things,
The flow of--was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Downhill at dusk?

I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they're gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.

I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.

Now no joy but lacks salt,
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain

Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.

When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,

The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length.

From The Poetry of Robert Frost by Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Copyright 1916...© 1969 by Holt Rinehart and Winston, Inc. etc etc copyrights by Frost & heir