Robert Frost (March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963 / San Francisco)
''The kind of UnitarianRobert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Masque of Mercy."
Who having by elimination got
From many gods to Three, and Three to One,
Thinks why not taper off to none at all.''
''The birch begins to crack its outer sheathRobert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Young Birch."
Of baby green and show the white beneath....''
''They must have seen ahead what now appears:Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "For John F. Kennedy His Inauguration."
They would bring empires down about our ears
And by the example of our Declaration
Make everybody want to be a nation.''
''Don't discount our powers;Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Kitty Hawk."
We have made a pass
At the infinite,''
''But with one step backward takenRobert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "One Step Backward Taken."
I saved myself from going.
A world torn loose went by me.''
''By measure. It was word and note,Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "The Aim Was Song."
The wind the wind had meant to be
A little through the lips and throat.
The aim was song the wind could see.''
''Nobody was ever meantRobert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. The Hardship of Accounting (l. 3-5). . . The Poetry of Robert Frost. Edward Connery Lathem, ed. (1979) Henry Holt.
To remember or invent
What he did with every cent.''
''"... You can hear the small buzz saws whine, the big sawRobert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "The Self-Seeker."
Caterwaul to the hills around the village
As they both bite the wood. It's all our music.
One ought as a good villager to like it.
No doubt it has a sort of prosperous sound,
And it's our life."
"Yes, when it's not our death."''
''... in this air of withering sweetness ...''Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Waiting."
''... everyone developingRobert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Masque of Mercy."
A language of his own to write his book in,
And one to cap the climax by combining
All language in a one-man tongue-confusion.''
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The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.