Author: Caitlin Callahan Many people know Robert Frost for his poems “The Road Not Taken”, or “Nothing Gold Can Stay”, which was included in the classic novel The Outsiders. Frost was born in San Francisco in 1874 before moving to Massachusetts, and finally to New Hampshire with his wife, Elinor, and six children. His first poem, called “My Butterfly: an Elegy”, was published in The Independent in 1894, and he was able to publish two more poems in 1906, but had trouble finding more publishers for his later poems. But, at age 38, his luck changed and he was able to find a publisher who would print his first book of poems. He became a very popular author and would go on to become the unofficial “poet laureate” of the U.S. He spoke as a special guest at President John F. Kennedy’s inauguration and became a teacher at several colleges. Biography.com Editors. “Robert Frost.” Biography.com, A&E Networks Television, 2 July 2019, www.biography.com/writer/robert-frost. Some of my favorite poems from Robert Frost include: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” from The Poetry of Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Copyright 1923, © 1969 by Henry Holt and Company, Inc., renewed 1951, by Robert Frost. Reprinted with the permission of Henry Holt and Company, LLC. A Late Walk When I go up through the mowing field, The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, Half closes the garden path. And when I come to the garden ground, The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of withered weeds Is sadder than any words. A tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, Comes softly rattling down. I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you. “A Late Walk by Robert Frost - Poems | Academy of American Poets.” Poets.org, Academy of American Poets, poets.org/poem/late-walk.
0 Comments
|
AuthorsThis is an informal place for any contributors to write. Categories |