Robert Frost

(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963 / San Francisco)

The Birthplace - Poem by Robert Frost

Here further up the mountain slope
Than there was every any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of wall round everything,
Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
And brought our various lives to pass.
A dozen girls and boys we were.
The mountain seemed to like the stir,
And made of us a little while-
With always something in her smile.
Today she wouldn't know our name.
(No girl's, of course, has stayed the same.)
The mountain pushed us off her knees.
And now her lap is full of trees.

Topic(s) of this poem: birth


Comments about The Birthplace by Robert Frost

  • (4/7/2018 5:24:00 PM)


    Describes rural VT @1930, after 100 years of Depression, walls which once enclosed fields running through hillside forests, mostly scrub from having been cleared cut. Young folks all gone. (Report) Reply

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  • Rogelio Guillermo (10/9/2017 7:26:00 PM)


    Nice take on living off a mountain... nature taking care of human beings.. nothing is better portrayal of nature-humans relationship better than that.. excellent poem (Report) Reply

  • (12/21/2016 5:17:00 PM)

    tom allport
    somewhere to live and grow for a short while (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, May 14, 2015



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