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 The Wood-Pile Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day, I paused and said, 'I will turn back from here. No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.' The hard snow held me, save where now and then One foot went through. The view was all in lines Straight up and down of tall slim trees Too much alike to mark or name a place by So as to say for certain I was here Or somewhere else: I was just far from home. A small bird flew before me. He was careful To put a tree between us when he lighted, And say no word to tell me who he was Who was so foolish as to think what he thought. He thought that I was after him for a feather— The white one in his tail; like one who takes Everything said as personal to himself. One flight out sideways would have undeceived him. And then there was a pile of wood for which I forgot him and let his little fear Carry him off the way I might have gone, Without so much as wishing him good-night. He went behind it to make his last stand. It was a cord of maple, cut and split And piled—and measured, four by four by eight. And not another like it could I see. No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it. And it was older sure than this year's cutting, Or even last year's or the year's before. The wood was gray and the bark warping off it And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle. What held it though on one side was a tree Still growing, and on one a stake and prop, These latter about to fall. I thought that only Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks Could so forget his handiwork on which He spent himself, the labor of his ax, And leave it there far from a useful fireplace To warm the frozen swamp as best it could With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
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Feb 20, 2015 13:15
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tl:dr - Nice day for a walk. Bit nippy. Oh, hiya, bird, I won't hurt you. Who left this bit of wood here?
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Feb 20, 2015 13:21
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Changed my mind, this should be the TLDR Robert Frost Thread
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Feb 20, 2015 13:26
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Acquainted with the Night I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, A luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.
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Feb 20, 2015 13:28
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whichi smiths song was that one
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Feb 20, 2015 13:28
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The Road Not Taken: there were 2 roads and i took one of them
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Feb 20, 2015 13:29
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A Servant To Servants I didn't make you know how glad I was To have you come and camp here on our land. I promised myself to get down some day And see the way you lived, but I don't know! With a houseful of hungry men to feed I guess you'd find.... It seems to me I can't express my feelings any more Than I can raise my voice or want to lift My 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 sure Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything. There's nothing but a voice-like left inside That 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 loud The advantages it has, so long and narrow, Like a deep piece of some old running river Cut short off at both ends. It lies five miles Straight away through the mountain notch From 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 biscuit To step outdoors and take the water dazzle A sunny morning, or take the rising wind About 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 regulate Your 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 shore That 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 right With 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 men And washing dishes after them--from doing Things over and over that just won't stay done. By good rights I ought not to have so much Put 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 far As 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 in Beside the lake from where that day I showed you We 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 year It's highways, and he's got too many men Around 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 talk While I fry their bacon. Much they care! No more put out in what they do or say Than 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 alone Their characters, or whether they are safe To have inside the house with doors unlocked. I'm not afraid of them, though, if they're not Afraid 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 him Locked 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 asylum Was 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 good To you in your condition; you can't know Affection 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 form Of 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 mischief If he wa'n't kept strict watch of, and it ended In 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 furniture He'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 paraded With his clothes on his arm--all of his clothes. Cruel--it sounds. I 'spose they did the best They 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 dreadful By his shouts in the night. He'd shout and shout Until 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 until His 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 was There 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-views And 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 away From 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 do Is 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.
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Feb 20, 2015 13:29
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Professor Shark posted:A Servant To Servants tl;dr I love my husband but his coworkers are kinda driving me nuts.
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Feb 20, 2015 13:45
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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening I was going to commit suicide but then I bitched out
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Feb 20, 2015 13:48
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Also my dad's idiot brother was a pretty huge pain in the rear end
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Feb 20, 2015 13:49
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Now Close The Windows Now close the windows and hush all the fields: If the trees must, let them silently toss; No bird is singing now, and if there is, Be it my loss. It will be long ere the marshes resume, I will be long ere the earliest bird: So close the windows and not hear the wind, But see all wind-stirred. Place for a Third Nothing to say to all those marriages! She had made three herself to three of his. The score was even for them, three to three. But come to die she found she cared so much: She thought of children in a burial row; Three children in a burial row were sad. One man's three women in a burial row Somehow made her impatient with the man. And so she said to Laban, "You have done A good deal right; don't do the last thing wrong. Don't make me lie with those two other women." Laban said, No, he would not make her lie With anyone but that she had a mind to, If that was how she felt, of course, he said. She went her way. But Laban having caught This glimpse of lingering person in Eliza, And anxious to make all he could of it With something he remembered in himself, Tried to think how he could exceed his promise, And give good measure to the dead, though thankless. If that was how she felt, he kept repeating. His first thought under pressure was a grave In a new boughten grave plot by herself, Under he didn't care how great a stone: He'd sell a yoke of steers to pay for it. And weren't there special cemetery flowers, That, once grief sets to growing, grief may rest; The flowers will go on with grief awhile, And no one seem neglecting or neglected? A prudent grief will not despise such aids. He thought of evergreen and everlasting. And then he had a thought worth many of these. Somewhere must be the grave of the young boy Who married her for playmate more than helpmate, And sometimes laughed at what it was between them. How would she like to sleep her last with him? Where was his grave? Did Laban know his name? He found the grave a town or two away, The headstone cut with John, Beloved Husband, Beside it room reserved; the say a sister's; A never-married sister's of that husband, Whether Eliza would be welcome there. The dead was bound to silence: ask the sister. So Laban saw the sister, and, saying nothing Of where Eliza wanted not to lie, And who had thought to lay her with her first love, Begged simply for the grave. The sister's face Fell all in wrinkles of responsibility. She wanted to do right. She'd have to think. Laban was old and poor, yet seemed to care; And she was old and poor—but she cared, too. They sat. She cast one dull, old look at him, Then turned him out to go on other errands She said he might attend to in the village, While she made up her mind how much she cared— And how much Laban cared—and why he cared, (She made shrewd eyes to see where he came in.) She'd looked Eliza up her second time, A widow at her second husband's grave, And offered her a home to rest awhile Before she went the poor man's widow's way, Housekeeping for the next man out of wedlock. She and Eliza had been friends through all. Who was she to judge marriage in a world Whose Bible's so confused up in marriage counsel? The sister had not come across this Laban; A decent product of life's ironing-out; She must not keep him waiting. Time would press Between the death day and the funeral day. So when she saw him coming in the street She hurried her decision to be ready To meet him with his answer at the door. Laban had known about what it would be From the way she had set her poor old mouth, To do, as she had put it, what was right. She gave it through the screen door closed between them: "No, not with John. There wouldn't be no sense. Eliza's had too many other men." Laban was forced to fall back on his plan To buy Eliza a plot to lie alone in: Which gives him for himself a choice of lots When his time comes to die and settle down.
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Feb 20, 2015 13:50
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Whenever a thread has a lot of boring rear end text that makes it a pain to scroll on my phone I just leave. Peace.
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Feb 20, 2015 13:51
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Not familiar with that one...
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Feb 20, 2015 13:54
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Never heard this before but going to take a shot at it:quote:Now Close The Windows TLDR: gonna be a goon shut in now and won't see the outside because working on my eve online account which is my masterpiece can someone TLDR what it actually means
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Feb 20, 2015 13:59
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Full Metal Jackass posted:Whenever a thread has a lot of boring rear end text that makes it a pain to scroll on my phone I just leave. Peace. I wish you would stop by the woods on a snowy evening.
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Feb 20, 2015 14:00
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Lascivious Sloth posted:Never heard this before but going to take a shot at it: too loud/ shut window/ sleep Edit: Avatar/ post combo +1
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Feb 20, 2015 14:02
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Mending Wall 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 neighbor 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 neighbors." Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbors? 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 neighbors." The Axe-Helve I've known ere now an interfering branch Of alder catch my lifted axe behind me. But that was in the woods, to hold my hand From striking at another alder's roots, And that was, as I say, an alder branch. This was a man, Baptiste, who stole one day Behind me on the snow in my own yard Where I was working at the chopping block, And cutting nothing not cut down already. He caught my axe expertly on the rise, When all my strength put forth was in his favor, Held it a moment where it was, to calm me, Then took it from me - and I let him take it. I didn't know him well enough to know What it was all about. There might be something He had in mind to say to a bad neighbour He might prefer to say to him disarmed. But all he had to tell me in French-English Was what he thought of- not me, but my axe; Me only as I took my axe to heart. It was the bad axe-helve some one had sold me - 'Made on machine,' he said, ploughing the grain With a thick thumbnail to show how it ran Across the handle's long, drawn serpentine, Like the two strokes across a dollar sign. 'You give her 'one good crack, she's snap raght off. Den where's your hax-ead flying t'rough de hair?' Admitted; and yet, what was that to him? 'Come on my house and I put you one in What's las' awhile - good hick'ry what's grow crooked, De second growt' I cut myself-tough, tough!' Something to sell? That wasn't how it sounded. 'Den when you say you come? It's cost you nothing. To-naght?' As well to-night as any night. Beyond an over-warmth of kitchen stove My welcome differed from no other welcome. Baptiste knew best why I was where I was. So long as he would leave enough unsaid, I shouldn't mind his being overjoyed (If overjoyed he was) at having got me Where I must judge if what he knew about an axe That not everybody else knew was to count For nothing in the measure of a neighbour. Hard if, though cast away for life with Yankees, A Frenchman couldn't get his human rating. Mrs. Baptiste came in and rocked a chair That had as many motions as the world: One back and forward, in and out of shadow, That got her nowhere; one more gradual, Sideways, that would have run her on the stove In time, had she not realized her danger And caught herself up bodily, chair and all, And set herself back where she, started from. 'She ain't spick too much Henglish- dat's too bad.' I was afraid, in brightening first on me, Then on Baptiste, as if she understood 'What passed between us, she was only reigning. Baptiste was anxious for her; but no more Than for himself, so placed he couldn't hope To keep his bargain of the morning with me In time to keep me from suspecting him Of really never having meant to keep it. Needlessly soon he had his axe-helves out, A quiverful to choose from, since he wished me To have the best he had, or had to spare - Not for me to ask which, when what he took Had beauties he had to point me out at length To ensure their not being wasted on me. He liked to have it slender as a whipstock, Free from the least knot, equal to the strain Of bending like a sword across the knee. He showed me that the lines of a good helve Were native to the grain before the knife Expressed them, and its curves were no false curves Put on it from without. And there its strength lay For the hard work. He chafed its long white body From end to end with his rough hand shut round it. He tried it at the eye-hold in the axe-head. 'Hahn, hahn,' he mused, 'don't need much taking down.' Baptiste knew how to make a short job long For love of it, and yet not waste time either. Do you know, what we talked about was knowledge? Baptiste on his defence about the children He kept from school, or did his best to keep - Whatever school and children and our doubts Of laid-on education had to do With the curves of his axe-helves and his having Used these unscrupulously to bring me To see for once the inside of his house. Was I desired in friendship, partly as some one To leave it to, whether the right to hold Such doubts of education should depend Upon the education of those who held them. But now he brushed the shavings from his knee And stood the axe there on its horse's hoof, Erect, but not without its waves, as when The snake stood up for evil in the Garden'- Top-heavy with a heaviness his short, Thick hand made light of, steel-blue chin drawn down And in a little - a French touch in that. Baptiste drew back and squinted at it, pleased; 'See how she's cock her head. Professor Shark fucked around with this message at 14:05 on Feb 20, 2015 |
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Feb 20, 2015 14:02
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Professor Shark posted:too loud/ shut window/ sleep What... noo... there is no theme or poetic meaning? he literally is just talking about shutting a loving window!??!
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Feb 20, 2015 14:30
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thbe first time i heard about robert frost was in grim fandango. when i hear about robert frost now it reminds me of grim fandango and some birds
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Feb 20, 2015 14:34
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Lascivious Sloth posted:What... noo... there is no theme or poetic meaning? he literally is just talking about shutting a loving window!??! I guess you could interpret it as the reaction to people who have read too much Robert Frost poetry. gently caress all this nature poo poo, I'm going to bed (turns on Netflix)!
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Feb 20, 2015 14:39
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too bad he's white
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Feb 20, 2015 14:40
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Like a white crumpled spider on his knee:
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Feb 20, 2015 14:44
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The Soldier He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled, That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust, But still lies pointed as it ploughed the dust. If we who sight along it round the world, See nothing worthy to have been its mark, It is because like men we look too near, Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere, Our missiles always make too short an arc. They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect The curve of earth, and striking, break their own; They make us cringe for metal-point on stone. But this we know, the obstacle that checked And tripped the body, shot the spirit on Further than target ever showed or shone. The Sound of the Trees I WONDER about the trees. Why do we wish to bear Forever the noise of these More than another noise So close to our dwelling place? We suffer them by the day Till we lose all measure of pace, And fixity in our joys, And acquire a listening air. They are that that talks of going But never gets away; And that talks no less for knowing, As it grows wiser and older, That now it means to stay. My feet tug at the floor And my head sways to my shoulder Sometimes when I watch trees sway, From the window or the door. I shall set forth for somewhere, I shall make the reckless choice Some day when they are in voice And tossing so as to scare The white clouds over them on. I shall have less to say, But I shall be gone. Spring Pools These pools that, though in forests, still reflect The total sky almost without defect, And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver, Will like the flowers beside them, soon be gone, And yet not out by any brook or river, But up by roots to bring dark foliage on. The trees that have it in their pent-up buds To darken nature and be summer woods— Let them think twice before they use their powers To blot out and drink up and sweep away These flowery waters and these watery flowers From snow that melted only yesterday.
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Feb 20, 2015 14:45
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Feb 20, 2015 14:47
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2pac is the only poetry i need
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Feb 20, 2015 14:48
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Provide, provide The witch that came (the withered hag) To wash the steps with pail and rag Was once the beauty Abishag, The picture pride of Hollywood. Too many fall from great and good For you to doubt the likelihood. Die early and avoid the fate. Or if predestined to die late, Make up your mind to die in state. Make the whole stock exchange your own! If need be occupy a throne, Where nobody can call you crone. Some have relied on what they knew, Others on being simply true. What worked for them might work for you. No memory of having starred Atones for later disregard Or keeps the end from being hard. Better to go down dignified With boughten friendship at your side Than none at all. Provide, provide!
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Feb 20, 2015 15:12
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but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep and miles to go before I sleep.
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Feb 20, 2015 15:36
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Hey Frosty, want a little snow...man?
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Feb 20, 2015 15:37
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Canis Major The great Overdog That heavenly beast With a star in one eye Gives a leap in the east. He dances upright All the way to the west And never once drops On his forefeet to rest. I'm a poor underdog, But to-night I will bark With the great Overdog That romps through the dark.
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Feb 20, 2015 17:09
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read coleridge for a good time that doesnt involve birds or fences or some poo poo
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Feb 20, 2015 17:35
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cool i remember high school
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Feb 20, 2015 17:42
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a messed up horse posted:cool i remember high school lol you must not have had a lot of fun then
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Feb 20, 2015 17:58
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Whose wood this is I do not know... *gestures to erection*
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Feb 20, 2015 18:13
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Professor Shark posted:lol you must not have had a lot of fun then agreed, class was v boring
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Feb 20, 2015 18:35
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robert frost? haha that's wild. dude would have been an epic x-men villain. like an ice villain. frost is his last name! haha!
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Feb 20, 2015 18:39
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Who would win in a fight: Robert Frost or one hundred divergent paths?
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Feb 20, 2015 19:51
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Yes, Robert Frost, considered one of the greatest poets is actually a great poet. In your next thread: Daniel Day Lewis is a great actor. Followed up by: Mozart, he wasn't bad.
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Feb 20, 2015 20:22
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Waltzing Along posted:Yes, Robert Frost, considered one of the greatest poets is actually a great poet. Sorry Waltz, this got turned into the TLDR Robert Frost Mega Thread within like 3 posts
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Feb 20, 2015 22:08
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a bay
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Feb 23, 2015 19:28
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open container posted:Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening bitched out?! that mofo had promises to keep
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Feb 23, 2015 20:05
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