Feature Poet: Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Robert Frost

Robert Frost is the NJCU Poetry Club’s very first Feature Poet!

As many of you know (or, perhaps, should know), Robert Frost is identified as the poet of New England (a rural poet). Frost gained widespread popularity through his use of American colloquial language and rhythm in vernacular as well as more realistic and direct treatment of the subject.

Keep and eye for some of his poems on the blog! Share your favorite poems, and share some analysis. Let’s get this club running.

Best,

Presidentecat, Tyler

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December 2, 2012 · 12:46 AM

“Every street lamp that I pass / Beats like a fatalistic drum”


http://www.a-w-i-p.com/media/blogs/poetry//Acquainted_with_the_Night1_66.jpg

“I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

……………………………………………………….

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet”

Frost, “Acquainted with the Night” (3-4, 7)

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Filed under December 2012

Frost’s Poetry

Dear Firecats,

You will find the featured poems that will be on display in the glass case when printed and formatted correctly (“To Earthward” seems to be complicating things due to its length) below.  Read and enjoy!   Provide something:  biographical information, poetics, analysis, a piece of art accompanied by lines of poetry, video… Test the limits and use the space to explore!

Best,

Presidentecat, Tyler

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227px-Robert_Frost_Signature.svg

“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.

—1936

“To Earthward”

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.

—1923

“Fire and Ice”

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 ice.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that destruction for ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

—1923

“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 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-by;

And further still at an unearthly height,

One luminary clock against the sky

 

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

—1928

“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.

—1915

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