14447 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14447 |
2018-03-02 01:29:33 |
Christmas Trees |
3/29/2010 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14448 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14448 |
2018-03-02 01:29:39 |
The Death Of The Hired Man |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14449 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14449 |
2018-03-02 01:29:45 |
The Bear |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14450 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14450 |
2018-03-02 01:29:51 |
The Trial By Existence |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14451 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14451 |
2018-03-02 01:29:58 |
The Flower Boat |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14452 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14452 |
2018-03-02 01:30:04 |
Rose Pogonias |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14453 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14453 |
2018-03-02 01:30:11 |
Reluctance |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14454 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14454 |
2018-03-02 01:30:16 |
To Earthward |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14455 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14455 |
2018-03-02 01:30:18 |
Storm Fear |
3/30/2010 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14456 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14456 |
2018-03-02 01:30:23 |
Canis Major |
3/29/2010 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14457 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14457 |
2018-03-02 01:30:29 |
Wind And Window Flower |
3/29/2010 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14458 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14458 |
2018-03-02 01:30:33 |
The Span Of Life |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14459 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14459 |
2018-03-02 01:30:38 |
The Lockless Door |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14460 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14460 |
2018-03-02 01:30:43 |
The Armful |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14461 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14461 |
2018-03-02 01:30:47 |
Love And A Question |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14462 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14462 |
2018-03-02 01:30:53 |
To The Thawing Wind |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14463 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14463 |
2018-03-02 01:30:59 |
Provide, Provide |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14464 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14464 |
2018-03-02 01:31:02 |
The Wood-Pile |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14465 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14465 |
2018-03-02 01:31:07 |
Two Look At Two |
1/3/2003 |
Love and forgetting might have carried them A little further up the mountain side With night so near, but not much further up. They must have halted soon in any case With thoughts of a path back, how rough it was With rock and washout, and unsafe in darkness; When they were halted by a tumbled wall With barbed-wire binding. They stood facing this, Spending what onward impulse they still had In One last look the way they must not go, On up the failing path, where, if a stone Or earthslide moved at night, it moved itself; No footstep moved it. 'This is all,' they sighed, Good-night to woods.' But not so; there was more. A doe from round a spruce stood looking at them Across the wall, as near the wall as they. She saw them in their field, they her in hers. The difficulty of seeing what stood still, Like some up-ended boulder split in two, Was in her clouded eyes; they saw no fear there. She seemed to think that two thus they were safe. Then, as if they were something that, though strange, She could not trouble her mind with too long, She sighed and passed unscared along the wall. 'This, then, is all. What more is there to ask?' But no, not yet. A snort to bid them wait. A buck from round the spruce stood looking at them Across the wall as near the wall as they. This was an antlered buck of lusty nostril, Not the same doe come back into her place. He viewed them quizzically with jerks of head, As if to ask, 'Why don't you make some motion? Or give some sign of life? Because you can't. I doubt if you're as living as you look." Thus till he had them almost feeling dared To stretch a proffering hand -- and a spell-breaking. Then he too passed unscared along the wall. Two had seen two, whichever side you spoke from. 'This must be all.' It was all. Still they stood, A great wave from it going over them, As if the earth in one unlooked-for favour Had made them certain earth returned their love. |
Robert Frost |
|
14466 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14466 |
2018-03-02 01:31:10 |
Blueberries |
3/29/2010 |
'You ought to have seen what I saw on my way To the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day: Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb, Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum In the cavernous pail of the first one to come! And all ripe together, not some of them green And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen! ' 'I don't know what part of the pasture you mean.' 'You know where they cut off the woods—let me see— It was two years ago—or no! —can it be No longer than that? —and the following fall The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall.' 'Why, there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow. That's always the way with the blueberries, though: There may not have been the ghost of a sign Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine, But get the pine out of the way, you may burn The pasture all over until not a fern Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick, And presto, they're up all around you as thick And hard to explain as a conjuror's trick.' 'It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit. I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot. And after all really they're ebony skinned: The blue's but a mist from the breath of the wind, A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand, And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned.' 'Does Mortenson know what he has, do you think? ' 'He may and not care and so leave the chewink To gather them for him—you know what he is. He won't make the fact that they're rightfully his An excuse for keeping us other folk out.' 'I wonder you didn't see Loren about.' 'The best of it was that I did. Do you know, I was just getting through what the field had to show And over the wall and into the road, When who should come by, with a democrat-load Of all the young chattering Lorens alive, But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive.' 'He saw you, then? What did he do? Did he frown? ' 'He just kept nodding his head up and down. You know how politely he always goes by. But he thought a big thought—I could tell by his eye— Which being expressed, might be this in effect: 'I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect, To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.'' 'He's a thriftier person than some I could name.' 'He seems to be thrifty; and hasn't he need, With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed? He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say, Like birds. They store a great many away. They eat them the year round, and those they don't eat They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet.' 'Who cares what they say? It's a nice way to live, Just taking what Nature is willing to give, Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow.' 'I wish you had seen his perpetual bow— And the air of the youngsters! Not one of them turned, And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.' 'I wish I knew half what the flock of them know Of where all the berries and other things grow, Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop. I met them one day and each had a flower Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower; Some strange kind—they told me it hadn't a name.' 'I've told you how once not long after we came, I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth By going to him of all people on earth To ask if he knew any fruit to be had For the picking. The rascal, he said he'd be glad To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad. There had been some berries—but those were all gone. He didn't say where they had been. He went on: 'I'm sure—I'm sure'—as polite as could be. He spoke to his wife in the door, 'Let me see, Mame, we don't know any good berrying place? ' It was all he could do to keep a straight face. 'If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him, He'll find he's mistaken. See here, for a whim, We'll pick in the Mortensons' pasture this year. We'll go in the morning, that is, if it's clear, And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet. It's so long since I picked I almost forget How we used to pick berries: we took one look round, Then sank out of sight like trolls underground, And saw nothing more of each other, or heard, Unless when you said I was keeping a bird Away from its nest, and I said it was you. 'Well, one of us is.' For complaining it flew Around and around us. And then for a while We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile, And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out, For when you made answer, your voice was as low As talking—you stood up beside me, you know.' 'We sha'n't have the place to ourselves to enjoy— Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy. They'll be there to-morrow, or even to-night. They won't be too friendly—they may be polite— To people they look on as having no right To pick where they're picking. But we won't complain. You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain, The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves, Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves.' |
Robert Frost |
|
14467 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14467 |
2018-03-02 01:31:14 |
On Looking Up By Chance At The Constellations |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14468 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14468 |
2018-03-02 01:31:16 |
Leaves Compared With Flowers |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14469 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14469 |
2018-03-02 01:31:19 |
Into My Own |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14470 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14470 |
2018-03-02 01:31:22 |
My November Guest |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14471 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14471 |
2018-03-02 01:31:28 |
Going For Water |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14472 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14472 |
2018-03-02 01:31:32 |
Good-Bye, And Keep Cold |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14473 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14473 |
2018-03-02 01:31:35 |
Fragmentary Blue |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14474 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14474 |
2018-03-02 01:31:40 |
Mowing |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14475 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14475 |
2018-03-02 01:31:44 |
My Butterfly |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14476 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14476 |
2018-03-02 01:31:48 |
The Sound Of Trees |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14477 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14477 |
2018-03-02 01:31:55 |
But Outer Space |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14478 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14478 |
2018-03-02 01:32:00 |
The Telephone |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14479 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14479 |
2018-03-02 01:32:03 |
Spring Pools |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14480 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14480 |
2018-03-02 01:32:09 |
Home Burial |
1/13/2003 |
He saw her from the bottom of the stairsBefore she saw him. She was starting down,Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.She took a doubtful step and then undid itTo raise herself and look again. He spokeAdvancing toward her: "What is it you seeFrom up there always? -- for I want to know."She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,And her face changed from terrified to dull.He said to gain time: "What is it you see?"Mounting until she cowered under him."I will find out now -- you must tell me, dear."She, in her place, refused him any help,With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see,Blind creature; and a while he didn't see.But at last he murmured, "Oh" and again, "Oh.""What is it -- what?" she said. "Just that I see.""You don't," she challenged. "Tell me what it is.""The wonder is I didn't see at once.I never noticed it from here before.I must be wonted to it -- that's the reason.The little graveyard where my people are!So small the window frames the whole of it.Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?There are three stones of slate and one of marble,Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlightOn the sidehill. We haven't to mind those.But I understand: it is not the stones,But the child's mound ----" "Don't, don't, don't, don't," she cried.She withdrew, shrinking from beneath his armThat rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;And turned on him with such a daunting look,He said twice over before he knew himself:"Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?""Not you! -- Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need it!I must get out of here. I must get air.--I don't know rightly whether any man can.""Amy! Don't go to someone else this time.Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs."He sat and fixed his chin between his fists."There's something I should like to ask you, dear.""You don't know how to ask it." "Help me, then."Her fingers moved the latch for all reply."My words are nearly always an offense.I don't know how to speak of anythingSo as to please you. But I might be taught,I should suppose. I can't say I see how.A man must partly give up being a manWith womenfolk. We could have some arrangementBy which I'd bind myself to keep hands offAnything special you're a-mind to name.Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love.Two that don't love can't live together without them.But two that do can't live together with them."She moved the latch a little. "Don't -- don't go.Don't carry it to someone else this time.Tell me about it if it's something human.Let me into your grief. I'm not so muchUnlike other folks as your standing thereApart would make me out. Give me my chance.I do think, though, you overdo it a little.What was it brought you up to think it the thingTo take your mother-loss of a first childSo inconsolably -- in the face of love.You'd think his memory might be satisfied ----""There you go sneering now!" "I'm not, I'm not!You make me angry. I'll come down to you.God, what a woman! And it's come to this,A man can't speak of his own child that's dead.""You can't because you don't know how to speak.If you had any feelings, you that dugWith your own hand -- how could you? -- his little grave;I saw you from that very window there,Making the gravel leap and leap in air,Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightlyAnd roll back down the mound beside the hole.I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you.And I crept down the stairs and up the stairsTo look again, and still your spade kept lifting.Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voiceOut in the kitchen, and I don't know why,But I went near to see with my own eyes.You could sit there with the stains on your shoesOf the fresh earth from your own baby's graveAnd talk about your everyday concerns.You had stood the spade up against the wallOutside there in the entry, for I saw it.""I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed.""I can repeat the very words you were saying:'Three foggy mornings and one rainy dayWill rot the best birch fence a man can build.'Think of it, talk like that at such a time!What had how long it takes a birch to rotTo do with what was in the darkened parlour?You couldn't care! The nearest friends can goWith anyone to death, comes so far shortThey might as well not try to go at all.No, from the time when one is sick to death,One is alone, and he dies more alone.Friends make pretense of following to the grave,But before one is in it, their minds are turnedAnd making the best of their way back to lifeAnd living people, and things they understand.But the world's evil. I won't have grief soIf I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't!""There, you have said it all and you feel better.You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door.The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up?Amyl There's someone coming down the road!""You -- oh, you think the talk is all. I must go --Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you ----""If -- you -- do!" She was opening the door wider."Where do you mean to go? First tell me that.I'll follow and bring you back by force. I will! --" |
Robert Frost |
|
14481 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14481 |
2018-03-02 01:32:13 |
Now Close The Windows |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14482 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14482 |
2018-03-02 01:32:22 |
God's Garden |
3/29/2010 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14483 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14483 |
2018-03-02 01:32:25 |
The Tuft Of Flowers |
1/3/2003 |
I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. The dew was gone that made his blade so keen Before I came to view the levelled scene. I looked for him behind an isle of trees; I listened for his whetstone on the breeze. But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been,—alone, 'As all must be,' I said within my heart, 'Whether they work together or apart.' But as I said it, swift there passed me by On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly, Seeking with memories grown dim over night Some resting flower of yesterday's delight. And once I marked his flight go round and round, As where some flower lay withering on the ground. And then he flew as far as eye could see, And then on tremulous wing came back to me. I thought of questions that have no reply, And would have turned to toss the grass to dry; But he turned first, and led my eye to look At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook, A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared. I left my place to know them by their name, Finding them butterfly-weed when I came. The mower in the dew had loved them thus, By leaving them to flourish, not for us, Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him, But from sheer morning gladness at the brim. The butterfly and I had lit upon, Nevertheless, a message from the dawn, That made me hear the wakening birds around, And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground, And feel a spirit kindred to my own; So that henceforth I worked no more alone; But glad with him, I worked as with his aid, And weary, sought at noon with him the shade; And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach. 'Men work together,' I told him from the heart, 'Whether they work together or apart.' |
Robert Frost |
|
14484 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14484 |
2018-03-02 01:32:29 |
Bond And Free |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14485 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14485 |
2018-03-02 01:32:32 |
Revelation |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14486 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14486 |
2018-03-02 01:32:39 |
The Aim Was Song |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14487 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14487 |
2018-03-02 01:32:45 |
The Soldier |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14488 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14488 |
2018-03-02 01:32:50 |
Carpe Diem |
3/29/2010 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14489 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14489 |
2018-03-02 01:32:54 |
Flower-Gathering |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14490 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14490 |
2018-03-02 01:32:57 |
The Gift Outright |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14491 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14491 |
2018-03-02 01:33:00 |
The Pasture |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14492 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14492 |
2018-03-02 01:33:03 |
Evening In A Sugar Orchard |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14493 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14493 |
2018-03-02 01:33:07 |
Neither Out Far Nor In Deep |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14494 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14494 |
2018-03-02 01:33:14 |
Two Tramps In Mud Time |
1/3/2003 |
Out of the mud two strangers cameAnd caught me splitting wood in the yard,And one of them put me off my aimBy hailing cheerily "Hit them hard!"I knew pretty well why he had dropped behindAnd 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 hitFell splinterless as a cloven rock.The blows that a life of self-controlSpares 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 dayWhen 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 alightAnd turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,His song so pitched as not to exciteA single flower as yet to bloom.It is snowing a flake; and he half knewWinter 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 lookIn 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 forgetThe lurking frost in the earth beneathThat will steal forth after the sun is setAnd show on the water its crystal teeth.The time when most I loved my taskThe two must make me love it moreBy coming with what they came to ask.You'd think I never had felt beforeThe weight of an ax-head poised aloft,The grip of earth on outspread feet,The life of muscles rocking softAnd 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 axThey had no way of knowing a fool.Nothing on either side was said.They knew they had but to stay their stayAnd all their logic would fill my head:As that I had no right to playWith what was another man's work for gain.My right might be love but theirs was need.And where the two exist in twainTheirs was the better right--agreed.But yield who will to their separation,My object in living is to uniteMy avocation and my vocationAs 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 doneFor Heaven and the future's sakes. |
Robert Frost |
|
14495 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14495 |
2018-03-02 01:33:22 |
Once By The Pacific |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14496 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14496 |
2018-03-02 01:33:25 |
Never Again Would Bird's Song Be The Same |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14497 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14497 |
2018-03-02 01:33:27 |
October |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14498 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14498 |
2018-03-02 01:33:33 |
Come In |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14499 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14499 |
2018-03-02 01:33:35 |
Out, Out |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14500 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14500 |
2018-03-02 01:33:41 |
Stars |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14501 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14501 |
2018-03-02 01:33:45 |
Gathering Leaves |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14502 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14502 |
2018-03-02 01:33:51 |
Ghost House |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14503 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14503 |
2018-03-02 01:33:55 |
Design |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14504 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14504 |
2018-03-02 01:34:00 |
"In White": Frost's Early Version Of Design |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14505 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14505 |
2018-03-02 01:34:07 |
A Servant To Servants |
1/13/2003 |
I didn't make you know how glad I wasTo have you come and camp here on our land.I promised myself to get down some dayAnd see the way you lived, but I don't know!With a houseful of hungry men to feedI guess you'd find.... It seems to meI can't express my feelings any moreThan I can raise my voice or want to liftMy hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.It's got so I don't even know for sureWhether I am glad, sorry, or anything.There's nothing but a voice-like left insideThat seems to tell me how I ought to feel,And would feel if I wasn't all gone wrong.You take the lake. I look and look at it.I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water.I stand and make myself repeat out loudThe advantages it has, so long and narrow,Like a deep piece of some old running riverCut short off at both ends. It lies five milesStraight away through the mountain notchFrom the sink window where I wash the plates,And all our storms come up toward the house,Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuitTo step outdoors and take the water dazzleA sunny morning, or take the rising windAbout my face and body and through my wrapper,When a storm threatened from the Dragon's Den,And a cold chill shivered across the lake.I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water,Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it?I expect, though, everyone's heard of it.In a book about ferns? Listen to that!You let things more like feathers regulateYour going and coming. And you like it here?I can see how you might. But I don't know!It would be different if more people came,For then there would be business. As it is,The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,Sometimes we don't. We've a good piece of shoreThat ought to be worth something, and may yet.But I don't count on it as much as Len.He looks on the bright side of everything,Including me. He thinks I'll be all rightWith doctoring. But it's not medicine--Lowe is the only doctor's dared to say so--It's rest I want--there, I have said it out--From cooking meals for hungry hired menAnd washing dishes after them--from doingThings over and over that just won't stay done.By good rights I ought not to have so muchPut on me, but there seems no other way.Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.He says the best way out is always through.And I agree to that, or in so farAs that I can see no way out but through--Leastways for me--and then they'll be convinced.It's not that Len don't want the best for me.It was his plan our moving over inBeside the lake from where that day I showed youWe used to live--ten miles from anywhere.We didn't change without some sacrifice,But Len went at it to make up the loss.His work's a man's, of course, from sun to sun,But he works when he works as hard as I do--Though there's small profit in comparisons.(Women and men will make them all the same.)But work ain't all. Len undertakes too much.He's into everything in town. This yearIt's highways, and he's got too many menAround him to look after that make waste.They take advantage of him shamefully,And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,Sprawling about the kitchen with their talkWhile I fry their bacon. Much they care!No more put out in what they do or sayThan if I wasn't in the room at all.Coming and going all the time, they are:I don't learn what their names are, let aloneTheir characters, or whether they are safeTo have inside the house with doors unlocked.I'm not afraid of them, though, if they're notAfraid of me. There's two can play at that.I have my fancies: it runs in the family.My father's brother wasn't right. They kept himLocked up for years back there at the old farm.I've been away once--yes, I've been away.The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;I wouldn't have sent anyone of mine there;You know the old idea--the only asylumWas the poorhouse, and those who could afford,Rather than send their folks to such a place,Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.But it's not so: the place is the asylum.There they have every means proper to do with,And you aren't darkening other people's lives--Worse than no good to them, and they no goodTo you in your condition; you can't knowAffection or the want of it in that state.I've heard too much of the old-fashioned way.My father's brother, he went mad quite young.Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,Because his violence took on the formOf carrying his pillow in his teeth;But it's more likely he was crossed in love,Or so the story goes. It was some girl.Anyway all he talked about was love.They soon saw he would do someone a mischiefIf he wa'n't kept strict watch of, and it endedIn father's building him a sort of cage,Or room within a room, of hickory poles,Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,--A narrow passage all the way around.Anything they put in for furnitureHe'd tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.So they made the place comfortable with straw,Like a beast's stall, to ease their consciences.Of course they had to feed him without dishes.They tried to keep him clothed, but he paradedWith his clothes on his arm--all of his clothes.Cruel--it sounds. I 'spose they did the bestThey knew. And just when he was at the height,Father and mother married, and mother came,A bride, to help take care of such a creature,And accommodate her young life to his.That was what marrying father meant to her.She had to lie and hear love things made dreadfulBy his shouts in the night. He'd shout and shoutUntil the strength was shouted out of him,And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.He'd pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,And let them go and make them twang untilHis hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.And then he'd crow as if he thought that child's play--The only fun he had. I've heard them say, though,They found a way to put a stop to it.He was before my time--I never saw him;But the pen stayed exactly as it wasThere in the upper chamber in the ell,A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.I often think of the smooth hickory bars.It got so I would say--you know, half fooling--"It's time I took my turn upstairs in jail"--Just as you will till it becomes a habit.No wonder I was glad to get away.Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.I didn't want the blame if things went wrong.I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,And I looked to be happy, and I was,As I said, for a while--but I don't know!Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.And there's more to it than just window-viewsAnd living by a lake. I'm past such help--Unless Len took the notion, which he won't,And I won't ask him--it's not sure enough.I 'spose I've got to go the road I'm going:Other folks have to, and why shouldn't I?I almost think if I could do like you,Drop everything and live out on the ground--But it might be, come night, I shouldn't like it,Or a long rain. I should soon get enough,And be glad of a good roof overhead.I've lain awake thinking of you, I'll warrant,More than you have yourself, some of these nights.The wonder was the tents weren't snatched awayFrom over you as you lay in your beds.I haven't courage for a risk like that.Bless you, of course, you're keeping me from work,But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.There's work enough to do--there's always that;But behind's behind. The worst that you can doIs set me back a little more behind.I sha'n't catch up in this world, anyway.I'd rather you'd not go unless you must. |
Robert Frost |
|
14506 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14506 |
2018-03-02 01:34:14 |
Tree At My Window |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14507 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14507 |
2018-03-02 01:34:17 |
Dust Of Snow |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14508 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14508 |
2018-03-02 01:34:20 |
Devotion |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14509 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14509 |
2018-03-02 01:34:23 |
Fireflies In The Garden |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14510 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14510 |
2018-03-02 01:34:26 |
The Silken Tent |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14511 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14511 |
2018-03-02 01:34:30 |
A Cliff Dwelling |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14512 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14512 |
2018-03-02 01:34:32 |
An Old Man's Winter Night |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14513 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14513 |
2018-03-02 01:34:36 |
A Dream Pang |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14514 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14514 |
2018-03-02 01:34:43 |
The Secret Sits |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14515 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14515 |
2018-03-02 01:34:46 |
Bereft |
1/3/2003 |
Your browser does not support the audio element. |
Robert Frost |
|
14516 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14516 |
2018-03-02 01:34:49 |
A Line-Storm Song |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14517 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14517 |
2018-03-02 01:34:53 |
Desert Places |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14518 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14518 |
2018-03-02 01:34:56 |
Mending Wall |
1/3/2003 |
Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours." Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours." |
Robert Frost |
|
14519 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14519 |
2018-03-02 01:35:02 |
A Considerable Speck |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14520 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14520 |
2018-03-02 01:35:08 |
A Patch Of Old Snow |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14521 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14521 |
2018-03-02 01:35:11 |
After Apple Picking |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14522 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14522 |
2018-03-02 01:35:14 |
The Rose Family |
1/3/2003 |
Your browser does not support the audio element. |
Robert Frost |
|
14523 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14523 |
2018-03-02 01:35:19 |
A Boundless Moment |
1/13/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14524 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14524 |
2018-03-02 01:35:23 |
Asking For Roses |
1/3/2003 |
|
Robert Frost |
|
14525 |
<L1> poet
id |
ts |
title |
1 |
2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
|
<L1> poem
id |
ts |
title |
date |
content |
author |
14525 |
2018-03-02 01:35:27 |
A Brook In The City |
1/13/2003 |
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Robert Frost |
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14526 |
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2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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14526 |
2018-03-02 01:35:33 |
Birches |
1/3/2003 |
When I see birches bend to left and rightAcross the lines of straighter darker trees,I like to think some boy's been swinging them.But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen themLoaded with ice a sunny winter morningAfter a rain. They click upon themselvesAs the breeze rises, and turn many-colouredAs the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shellsShattering and avalanching on the snow-crustSuch heaps of broken glass to sweep awayYou'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,And they seem not to break; though once they are bowedSo low for long, they never right themselves:You may see their trunks arching in the woodsYears afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hairBefore them over their heads to dry in the sun.But I was going to say when Truth broke inWith all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,I should prefer to have some boy bend themAs he went out and in to fetch the cows- Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,Whose only play was what he found himself,Summer or winter, and could play alone.One by one he subdued his father's treesBy riding them down over and over againUntil he took the stiffness out of them,And not one but hung limp, not one was leftFor him to conquer. He learned all there wasTo learn about not launching out too soonAnd so not carrying the tree awayClear to the ground. He always kept his poiseTo the top branches, climbing carefullyWith the same pains you use to fill a cupUp to the brim, and even above the brim.Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.So was I once myself a swinger of birches.And so I dream of going back to be.It's when I'm weary of considerations,And life is too much like a pathless woodWhere your face burns and tickles with the cobwebsBroken across it, and one eye is weepingFrom a twig's having lashed across it open.I'd like to get away from earth awhileAnd then come back to it and begin over.May no fate willfully misunderstand meAnd half grant what I wish and snatch me awayNot to return. Earth's the right place for love:I don't know where it's likely to go better.I'd like to go by climbing a birch treeAnd climb black branches up a snow-white trunkToward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,But dipped its top and set me down again.That would be good both going and coming back.One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. |
Robert Frost |
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14527 |
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2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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14527 |
2018-03-02 01:35:39 |
A Time To Talk |
1/3/2003 |
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Robert Frost |
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14528 |
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2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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14528 |
2018-03-02 01:35:40 |
A Prayer In Spring |
1/3/2003 |
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Robert Frost |
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14529 |
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2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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14529 |
2018-03-02 01:35:42 |
A Soldier |
1/13/2003 |
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Robert Frost |
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14530 |
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2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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14530 |
2018-03-02 01:35:45 |
A Question |
1/3/2003 |
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Robert Frost |
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14531 |
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2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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14531 |
2018-03-02 01:35:48 |
A Minor Bird |
1/13/2003 |
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Robert Frost |
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14532 |
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2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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14532 |
2018-03-02 01:35:51 |
A Late Walk |
1/3/2003 |
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Robert Frost |
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14533 |
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2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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14533 |
2018-03-02 01:35:56 |
Acquainted With The Night |
1/3/2003 |
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Robert Frost |
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14534 |
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2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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14534 |
2018-03-02 01:35:57 |
Nothing Gold Can Stay |
1/3/2003 |
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Robert Frost |
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14535 |
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2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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14535 |
2018-03-02 01:36:00 |
Fire And Ice |
1/3/2003 |
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Robert Frost |
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14536 |
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2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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14536 |
2018-03-02 01:36:03 |
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening |
1/3/2003 |
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Robert Frost |
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14537 |
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2018-02-28 20:18:29 |
Robert Frost |
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14537 |
2018-03-02 01:36:07 |
The Road Not Taken |
1/3/2003 |
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Robert Frost |
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41 |
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2 |
2018-02-28 20:19:00 |
Maya Angelou |
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41 |
2018-03-01 03:45:43 |
The Rock Cries Out to Us Today |
2/8/2016 |
A Rock, A River, A TreeHosts to species long since departed,Mark the mastodon.The dinosaur, who left dry tokensOf their sojourn hereOn our planet floor,Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doomIs lost in the gloom of dust and ages.But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,Come, you may stand upon myBack and face your distant destiny,But seek no haven in my shadow.I will give you no hiding place down here.You, created only a little lower thanThe angels, have crouched too long inThe bruising darkness,Have lain too longFace down in ignorance.Your mouths spelling wordsArmed for slaughter.The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,But do not hide your face.Across the wall of the world,A river sings a beautiful song,Come rest here by my side.Each of you a bordered country,Delicate and strangely made proud,Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.Your armed struggles for profitHave left collars of waste uponMy shore, currents of debris upon my breast.Yet, today I call you to my riverside,If you will study war no more.Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songsThe Creator gave to me when IAnd the tree and stone were one.Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your browAnd when you yet knew you still knew nothing.The river sings and sings on.There is a true yearning to respond toThe singing river and the wise rock.So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,The African and Native American, the Sioux,The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.They hear. They all hearThe speaking of the tree.Today, the first and last of every treeSpeaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.Each of you, descendant of some passed onTraveller, has been paid for.You, who gave me my first name,You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,Then forced on bloody feet,Left me to the employment of other seekers- Desperate for gain, starving for gold.You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmarePraying for a dream.Here, root yourselves beside me.I am the tree planted by the river,Which will not be moved.I, the rock, I the river, I the treeI am yours- your passages have been paid.Lift up your faces, you have a piercing needFor this bright morning dawning for you.History, despite its wrenching pain,Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,Need not be lived again.Lift up your eyes uponThe day breaking for you.Give birth againTo the dream.Women, children, men,Take it into the palms of your hands.Mold it into the shape of your mostPrivate need. Sculpt it intoThe image of your most public self.Lift up your hearts.Each new hour holds new chancesFor new beginnings.Do not be wedded foreverTo fear, yoked eternallyTo brutishness.The horizon leans forward,Offering you space to place new steps of change.Here, on the pulse of this fine dayYou may have the courageTo look up and out upon me,The rock, the river, the tree, your country.No less to Midas than the mendicant.No less to you now than the mastodon then.Here on the pulse of this new dayYou may have the grace to look up and outAnd into your sister's eyes,Into your brother's face, your countryAnd say simplyVery simplyWith hopeGood morning. |
Maya Angelou |
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42 |
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2018-02-28 20:19:00 |
Maya Angelou |
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42 |
2018-03-01 03:45:50 |
Song for the Old Ones |
3/9/2016 |
My Fathers sit on benches their flesh counts every plank the slats leave dents of darknessdeep in their withered flanks.They nod like broken candles all waxed and burnt profound they say 'It's understandingthat makes the world go round.'There in those pleated faces I see the auction block the chains and slavery's cofflesthe whip and lash and stock.My Fathers speak in voices that shred my fact and sound they say 'It's our submissionthat makes the world go round.'They used the finest cunning their naked wits and wiles the lowly Uncle Tommingand Aunt Jemima's smiles.They've laughed to shield their crying then shuffled through their dreams and stepped 'n' fetched a countryto write the blues with screams.I understand their meaning it could and did derive from living on the edge of deathThey kept my race alive. |
Maya Angelou |
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43 |
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2018-02-28 20:19:00 |
Maya Angelou |
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43 |
2018-03-01 03:45:53 |
In All Ways A Woman |
3/9/2016 |
In my young years I took pride in the fact that luck was called a lady. In fact, there were so few public acknowledgments of the female presence that I felt personally honored whenever nature and large ships were referred to as feminine. But as I matured, I began to resent being considered a sister to a changeling as fickle as luck, as aloof as an ocean, and as frivolous as nature. The phrase 'A woman always has the right to change her mind' played so aptly into the negative image of the female that I made myself a victim to an unwavering decision. Even if I made an inane and stupid choice, I stuck by it rather than 'be like a woman and change my mind.'Being a woman is hard work. Not without joy and even ecstasy, but still relentless, unending work. Becoming an old female may require only being born with certain genitalia, inheriting long-living genes and the fortune not to be run over by an out-of-control truck, but to become and remain a woman command the existence and employment of genius.The woman who survives intact and happy must be at once tender and tough. She must have convinced herself, or be in the unending process of convincing herself, that she, her values, and her choices are important. In a time a nd world where males hold sway and control, the pressure upon women to yield their rights-of-way is tremendous. And it is under those very circumstances that the woman's toughness must be in evidence.She must resist considering herself a lesser version of her male counterpart. She is not a sculptress, poetess, authoress, Jewess, Negress, or even (now rare) in university parlance a rectoress. If she is the thing, then for her own sense of self and for the education of the ill-informed she must insist with rectitude in being the thing and in being called the thing.A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but a woman called by a devaluing name will only be weakened by the misnomer. She will need to prize her tenderness and be able to display it at appropriate times in order to prevent toughness from gaining total authority and to avoid becoming a mirror image of those men who value power above life, and control over love.It is imperative that a woman keep her sense of humor intact and at the ready. She must see, even if only in secret, that she is the funniest, looniest woman in her world, which she should also see as being the most absurd world of all times. It has been said that laughter is therapeutic and amiability lengthens the life span. Women should be tough, tender, laugh as much as possible, and live long lives. The struggle for equality continues unabated, and the woman warrior who is armed with wit and courage will be among the first to celebrate victory. |
Maya Angelou |
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2018-02-28 20:19:00 |
Maya Angelou |
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44 |
2018-03-01 03:46:00 |
Glory Falls |
3/9/2016 |
Glory falls around us as we sob a dirge of desolation on the Cross and hatred is the ballast of the rock which his upon our necks and underfoot. We have woven robes of silk and clothed our nakedness with tapestry. From crawling on this murky planet's floor we soar beyond the birds and through the clouds and edge our waays from hate and blind despair and bring horror to our brothers, and to our sisters cheer. We grow despite the horror that we feed upon our own tomorrow. We grow. |
Maya Angelou |
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45 |
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2018-02-28 20:19:00 |
Maya Angelou |
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45 |
2018-03-01 03:46:06 |
The Week of Diana |
3/9/2016 |
The dark lantern of world sadness has cast its shadow upon the land.We stumble into our misery on leaden feet.Our minds seek to comprehend the unknowable and our hearts seek toMeasure a tomorrow without the Sunshine Princess.Her hands which had held bright tiaras and jewelled crowns,Also stroked the faces of pain alongAngola's dusty roads.She was born to the privilege of plentyYet, she communed with the needy without a show of pompous piety.Glowing in Bosnia, radiant at glittering balls,We came to love her and claim her for her grace and accessibility.Luminous always.We smiled to see her enter and grinned at her happiness.Now the world we made is forever changed…Made smaller, meaner, less colorful.Yet, because she did live,Because she ventured life and confronted change,She has left us a legacy.We also may dare…To care for some other than ourselves and those who look like us.And maybe we can take a lesson from herAnd try to live our livesWith passion, compassion, humor and grace.Goodbye Sunshine Princess. |
Maya Angelou |
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46 |
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2018-02-28 20:19:00 |
Maya Angelou |
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46 |
2018-03-01 03:46:09 |
Harlem Hopscotch |
3/9/2016 |
One foot down, then hop! It's hot. Good things for the ones that's got.Another jump, now to the left. Everybody for hisself.In the air, now both feet down. Since you black, don't stick around.Food is gone, the rent is due, Curse and cry and then jump two.All the people out of work, Hold for three, then twist and jerk.Cross the line, they count you out. That's what hopping's all about.Both feet flat, the game is done.They think I lost. I think I won. |
Maya Angelou |
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2018-02-28 20:19:00 |
Maya Angelou |
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2018-03-01 03:46:16 |
The Traveller |
3/9/2016 |
Byways and bygoneAnd lone nights longSun rays and sea wavesAnd star and stoneManless and friendlessNo cave my homeThis is my tortureMy long nights, lone |
Maya Angelou |
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48 |
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2018-02-28 20:19:00 |
Maya Angelou |
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2018-03-01 03:46:19 |
The Black Family Pledge |
3/9/2016 |
BECAUSE we have forgotten our ancestors,our children no longer give us honor.BECAUSE we have lost the path our ancestors clearedkneeling in perilous undergrowth,our children cannot find their way.BECAUSE we have banished the God of our ancestors,our children cannot pray.BECAUSE the old wails of our ancestors have faded beyond our hearing,our children cannot hear us crying.BECAUSE we have abandoned our wisdom of mothering and fathering,our befuddled children give birth to childrenthey neither want nor understand.BECAUSE we have forgotten how to love, the adversary is within ourgates, an holds us up to the mirror of the world shouting,'Regard the loveless'Therefore we pledge to bind ourselves to one another, to embrace ourlowliest, to keep company with our loneliest, to educate our illiterate,to feed our starving, to clothe our ragged, to do all good things,knowing that we are more than keepers of our brothers and sisters.We ARE our brothers and sisters.IN HONOR of those who toiled and implored God with golden tongues,and in gratitude to the same God who brought us out of hopeless desolation, we make this pledge. |
Maya Angelou |
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49 |
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2018-02-28 20:19:00 |
Maya Angelou |
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2018-03-01 03:46:22 |
Our Grandmothers |
7/14/2015 |
She lay, skin down in the moist dirt, the canebrake rustling with the whispers of leaves, and loud longing of hounds and the ransack of hunters crackling the near branches.She muttered, lifting her head a nod toward freedom, I shall not, I shall not be moved.She gathered her babies, their tears slick as oil on black faces, their young eyes canvassing mornings of madness. Momma, is Master going to sell you from us tomorrow?Yes. Unless you keep walking more and talking less. Yes. Unless the keeper of our lives releases me from all commandments. Yes. And your lives, never mine to live, will be executed upon the killing floor of innocents. Unless you match my heart and words, saying with me,I shall not be moved.In Virginia tobacco fields, leaning into the curve of Steinway pianos, along Arkansas roads, in the red hills of Georgia, into the palms of her chained hands, she cried against calamity, You have tried to destroy me and though I perish daily,I shall not be moved.Her universe, often summarized into one black body falling finally from the tree to her feet, made her cry each time into a new voice. All my past hastens to defeat, and strangers claim the glory of my love, Iniquity has bound me to his bed.yet, I must not be moved.She heard the names, swirling ribbons in the wind of history: nigger, nigger bitch, heifer, mammy, property, creature, ape, baboon, whore, hot tail, thing, it. She said, But my description cannot fit your tongue, for I have a certain way of being in this world,and I shall not, I shall not be moved.No angel stretched protecting wings above the heads of her children, fluttering and urging the winds of reason into the confusions of their lives. The sprouted like young weeds, but she could not shield their growth from the grinding blades of ignorance, nor shape them into symbolic topiaries. She sent them away, underground, overland, in coaches and shoeless.When you learn, teach. When you get, give. As for me,I shall not be moved.She stood in midocean, seeking dry land. She searched God's face. Assured, she placed her fire of service on the altar, and though clothed in the finery of faith, when she appeared at the temple door, no sign welcomed Black Grandmother, Enter here.Into the crashing sound, into wickedness, she cried, No one, no, nor no one million ones dare deny me God, I go forth along, and stand as ten thousand.The Divine upon my right impels me to pull forever at the latch on Freedom's gate.The Holy Spirit upon my left leads my feet without ceasing into the camp of the righteous and into the tents of the free.These momma faces, lemon-yellow, plum-purple, honey-brown, have grimaced and twisted down a pyramid for years. She is Sheba the Sojourner, Harriet and Zora, Mary Bethune and Angela, Annie to Zenobia.She stands before the abortion clinic, confounded by the lack of choices. In the Welfare line, reduced to the pity of handouts. Ordained in the pulpit, shielded by the mysteries. In the operating room, husbanding life. In the choir loft, holding God in her throat. On lonely street corners, hawking her body. In the classroom, loving the children to understanding.Centered on the world's stage, she sings to her loves and beloveds, to her foes and detractors: However I am perceived and deceived, however my ignorance and conceits, lay aside your fears that I will be undone,for I shall not be moved. |
Maya Angelou |
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