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Two Tramps In Mud Time

Rating: 2.8
Out of the mud two strangers came
And caught me splitting wood in the yard,
And one of them put me off my aim
By hailing cheerily "Hit them hard!"
I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind
And let the other go on a way.
I knew pretty well what he had in mind:
He wanted to take my job for pay.

Good blocks of oak it was I split,
As large around as the chopping block;
And every piece I squarely hit
Fell splinterless as a cloven rock.
The blows that a life of self-control
Spares to strike for the common good,
That day, giving a loose my soul,
I spent on the unimportant wood.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.

A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,
His song so pitched as not to excite
A single flower as yet to bloom.
It is snowing a flake; and he half knew
Winter was only playing possum.
Except in color he isn't blue,
But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.

The water for which we may have to look
In summertime with a witching wand,
In every wheelrut's now a brook,
In every print of a hoof a pond.
Be glad of water, but don't forget
The lurking frost in the earth beneath
That will steal forth after the sun is set
And show on the water its crystal teeth.

The time when most I loved my task
The two must make me love it more
By coming with what they came to ask.
You'd think I never had felt before
The weight of an ax-head poised aloft,
The grip of earth on outspread feet,
The life of muscles rocking soft
And smooth and moist in vernal heat.

Out of the wood two hulking tramps
(From sleeping God knows where last night,
But not long since in the lumber camps).
They thought all chopping was theirs of right.
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
They judged me by their appropriate tool.
Except as a fellow handled an ax
They had no way of knowing a fool.

Nothing on either side was said.
They knew they had but to stay their stay

And all their logic would fill my head:
As that I had no right to play
With what was another man's work for gain.
My right might be love but theirs was need.
And where the two exist in twain
Theirs was the better right--agreed.

But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sakes.
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COMMENTS
tittles 18 December 2018
buttcheeks in my mouthhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
8 2 Reply
Richard 10 January 2018
Nice poem, I liked the words. My cat did too
6 5 Reply
Person #78,214,635,480 04 November 2018
Did you know that cats are just under two points on the road if you hit them? Cats are the worst, unless the cat is more than 150lbs when fully grown. House cats are the worst.
0 0 Reply
* Sunprincess * 18 March 2014
.....love these two stanzas...truly a pleasure to read... The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, A cloud comes over the sunlit arch, A wind comes off a frozen peak, And you're two months back in the middle of March. A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume, His song so pitched as not to excite A single flower as yet to bloom. It is snowing a flake; and he half knew Winter was only playing possum. Except in color he isn't blue, But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.
5 4 Reply
Claire Thomas 13 April 2013
Stanza three is amazing.Frost does it again with his understanding of nature, verse and the human spirit.
10 9 Reply
Andrew Hoellering 25 October 2009
Frost's aim in life is to combine what he loves to do with making a living -in his own life he moved from a vocation -teaching -to his avocation, writing poetry. No wonder he is such a great poet, combing great insights with the most subtle poetic technique.
13 7 Reply
Jake Baskin 25 September 2008
The last paragraph is why poetry is written: So that someday, someone can write something as beautiful and insightful. It has the two great Frost traits: The depths it reaches into the human spirit, and the almost excessive discussion of nature.
10 8 Reply

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