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

  • 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

    1 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Tom Allport (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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