The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA Boy's Will

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA Boy's WillThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: A Boy's WillAuthor: Robert FrostRelease date: January 1, 2002 [eBook #3021]Most recently updated: April 27, 2013Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Reed, and David Widger*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOY'S WILL ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: A Boy's WillAuthor: Robert FrostRelease date: January 1, 2002 [eBook #3021]Most recently updated: April 27, 2013Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Reed, and David Widger

Title: A Boy's Will

Author: Robert Frost

Release date: January 1, 2002 [eBook #3021]Most recently updated: April 27, 2013

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Reed, and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOY'S WILL ***

CONTENTSExpanded ContentsInto My OwnGhost HouseMy November GuestLove and a QuestionA Late WalkStarsStorm FearWind and Window FlowerTo the Thawing Wind (audio)A Prayer in SpringFlower-gatheringRose PogoniasAsking for RosesWaiting Afield at DuskIn a ValeA Dream PangIn NeglectThe Vantage PointMowingGoing for WaterRevelationThe Trial by ExistenceIn Equal SacrificeThe Tuft of FlowersSpoils of the DeadPan with UsThe Demiurge's LaughNow Close the WindowsA Line-storm SongOctoberMy ButterflyReluctance

CONTENTS

Expanded Contents

Into My Own

Ghost House

My November Guest

Love and a Question

A Late Walk

Stars

Storm Fear

Wind and Window Flower

To the Thawing Wind (audio)

A Prayer in Spring

Flower-gathering

Rose Pogonias

Asking for Roses

Waiting Afield at Dusk

In a Vale

A Dream Pang

In Neglect

The Vantage Point

Mowing

Going for Water

Revelation

The Trial by Existence

In Equal Sacrifice

The Tuft of Flowers

Spoils of the Dead

Pan with Us

The Demiurge's Laugh

Now Close the Windows

A Line-storm Song

October

My Butterfly

Reluctance

Part IInto My OwnThe youth is persuaded that he will be rather more than less himselffor having forsworn the world.Ghost HouseHe is happy in society of his choosing.My November GuestHe is in love with being misunderstood.Love and a QuestionHe is in doubt whether to admit real trouble to a place beside thehearth with love.A Late WalkHe courts the autumnal mood.StarsThere is no oversight of human affairs.Storm FearHe is afraid of his own isolation.Wind and Window FlowerOut of the winter things he fashions a story of modern love.To the Thawing Wind (audio)He calls on change through the violence of the elements.A Prayer in SpringHe discovers that the greatness of love lies not in forward-lookingthoughts;Flower-gatheringnor yet in any spur it may be to ambition.Rose PogoniasHe is no dissenter from the ritualism of nature;Asking for Rosesnor from the ritualism of youth which is make-believe.Waiting—Afield at DuskHe arrives at the turn of the year.In a ValeOut of old longings he fashions a story.A Dream PangHe is shown by a dream how really well it is with him.In NeglectHe is scornful of folk his scorn cannot reach.The Vantage PointAnd again scornful, but there is no one hurt.MowingHe takes up life simply with the small tasks.Going for WaterPart IIRevelationHe resolves to become intelligible, at least to himself, since thereis no help else;The Trial by Existenceand to know definitely what he thinks about the soul;In Equal Sacrificeabout love;The Tuft of Flowersabout fellowship;Spoils of the Deadabout death;Pan with Usabout art (his own);The Demiurge's Laughabout science.Part IIINow Close the WindowsIt is time to make an end of speaking.A Line-storm SongIt is the autumnal mood with a difference.OctoberHe sees days slipping from him that were the best for what theywere.My ButterflyThere are things that can never be the same.Reluctance

ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees,So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,But stretched away unto the edge of doom.I should not be withheld but that some dayInto their vastness I should steal away,Fearless of ever finding open land,Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.I do not see why I should e'er turn back,Or those should not set forth upon my trackTo overtake me, who should miss me hereAnd long to know if still I held them dear.They would not find me changed from him they knew—Only more sure of all I thought was true.

I DWELL in a lonely house I knowThat vanished many a summer ago,And left no trace but the cellar walls,And a cellar in which the daylight falls,And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shieldThe woods come back to the mowing field;The orchard tree has grown one copseOf new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;The footpath down to the well is healed.I dwell with a strangely aching heartIn that vanished abode there far apartOn that disused and forgotten roadThat has no dust-bath now for the toad.Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;The whippoorwill is coming to shoutAnd hush and cluck and flutter about:I hear him begin far enough awayFull many a time to say his sayBefore he arrives to say it out.It is under the small, dim, summer star.I know not who these mute folk areWho share the unlit place with me—Those stones out under the low-limbed treeDoubtless bear names that the mosses mar.They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—With none among them that ever sings,And yet, in view of how many things,As sweet companions as might be had.

MY Sorrow, when she's here with me,Thinks these dark days of autumn rainAre beautiful as days can be;She loves the bare, the withered tree;She walks the sodden pasture lane.Her pleasure will not let me stay.She talks and I am fain to list:She's glad the birds are gone away,She's glad her simple worsted grayIs silver now with clinging mist.The desolate, deserted trees,The faded earth, the heavy sky,The beauties she so truly sees,She thinks I have no eye for these,And vexes me for reason why.Not yesterday I learned to knowThe love of bare November daysBefore the coming of the snow,But it were vain to tell her so,And they are better for her praise.

A STRANGER came to the door at eve,And he spoke the bridegroom fair.He bore a green-white stick in his hand,And, for all burden, care.He asked with the eyes more than the lipsFor a shelter for the night,And he turned and looked at the road afarWithout a window light.The bridegroom came forth into the porchWith, 'Let us look at the sky,And question what of the night to be,Stranger, you and I.'The woodbine leaves littered the yard,The woodbine berries were blue,Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;'Stranger, I wish I knew.'Within, the bride in the dusk aloneBent over the open fire,Her face rose-red with the glowing coalAnd the thought of the heart's desire.The bridegroom looked at the weary road,Yet saw but her within,And wished her heart in a case of goldAnd pinned with a silver pin.The bridegroom thought it little to giveA dole of bread, a purse,A heartfelt prayer for the poor of God,Or for the rich a curse;But whether or not a man was askedTo mar the love of twoBy harboring woe in the bridal house,The bridegroom wished he knew.

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 birdsUp from the tangle of withered weedsIs 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 forthBy picking the faded blueOf the last remaining aster flowerTo carry again to you.

HOW countlessly they congregateO'er our tumultuous snow,Which flows in shapes as tall as treesWhen wintry winds do blow!—As if with keenness for our fate,Our faltering few steps onTo white rest, and a place of restInvisible at dawn,—And yet with neither love nor hate,Those stars like some snow-whiteMinerva's snow-white marble eyesWithout the gift of sight.

WHEN the wind works against us in the dark,And pelts with snowThe lowest chamber window on the east,And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,The beast,'Come out! Come out!'—It costs no inward struggle not to go,Ah, no!I count our strength,Two and a child,Those of us not asleep subdued to markHow the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,—How drifts are piled,Dooryard and road ungraded,Till even the comforting barn grows far awayAnd my heart owns a doubtWhether 'tis in us to arise with dayAnd save ourselves unaided.

LOVERS, forget your love,And list to the love of these,She a window flower,And he a winter breeze.When the frosty window veilWas melted down at noon,And the cagèd yellow birdHung over her in tune,He marked her through the pane,He could not help but mark,And only passed her by,To come again at dark.He was a winter wind,Concerned with ice and snow,Dead weeds and unmated birds,And little of love could know.But he sighed upon the sill,He gave the sash a shake,As witness all withinWho lay that night awake.Perchance he half prevailedTo win her for the flightFrom the firelit looking-glassAnd warm stove-window light.But the flower leaned asideAnd thought of naught to say,And morning found the breezeA hundred miles away.

COME with rain, O loud Southwester!Bring the singer, bring the nester;Give the buried flower a dream;Make the settled snow-bank steam;Find the brown beneath the white;But whate'er you do to-night,Bathe my window, make it flow,Melt it as the ices go;Melt the glass and leave the sticksLike a hermit's crucifix;Burst into my narrow stall;Swing the picture on the wall;Run the rattling pages o'er;Scatter poems on the floor;Turn the poet out of door.

OH, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;And give us not to think so far awayAs the uncertain harvest; keep us hereAll simply in the springing of the year.Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;And make us happy in the happy bees,The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.And make us happy in the darting birdThat suddenly above the bees is heard,The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,And off a blossom in mid air stands still.For this is love and nothing else is love,The which it is reserved for God aboveTo sanctify to what far ends He will,But which it only needs that we fulfil.

I LEFT you in the morning,And in the morning glow,You walked a way beside meTo make me sad to go.Do you know me in the gloaming,Gaunt and dusty grey with roaming?Are you dumb because you know me not,Or dumb because you know?All for me? And not a questionFor the faded flowers gayThat could take me from beside youFor the ages of a day?They are yours, and be the measureOf their worth for you to treasure,The measure of the little whileThat I've been long away.

A SATURATED meadow,Sun-shaped and jewel-small,A circle scarcely widerThan the trees around were tall;Where winds were quite excluded,And the air was stifling sweetWith the breath of many flowers,—A temple of the heat.There we bowed us in the burning,As the sun's right worship is,To pick where none could miss themA thousand orchises;For though the grass was scattered,Yet every second spearSeemed tipped with wings of color,That tinged the atmosphere.We raised a simple prayerBefore we left the spot,That in the general mowingThat place might be forgot;Or if not all so favoured,Obtain such grace of hours,That none should mow the grass thereWhile so confused with flowers.

A HOUSE that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,With doors that none but the wind ever closes,Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy,'But one we must ask if we want any roses.'So we must join hands in the dew coming coldlyThere in the hush of the wood that reposes,And turn and go up to the open door boldly,And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?''Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses.'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.'A word with you, that of the singer recalling—Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows isA flower unplucked is but left to the falling,And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.'We do not loosen our hands' intertwining(Not caring so very much what she supposes),There when she comes on us mistily shiningAnd grants us by silence the boon of her roses.

WHAT things for dream there are when spectre-like,Moving among tall haycocks lightly piled,I enter alone upon the stubble field,From which the laborers' voices late have died,And in the antiphony of afterglowAnd rising full moon, sit me downUpon the full moon's side of the first haycockAnd lose myself amid so many alike.I dream upon the opposing lights of the hour,Preventing shadow until the moon prevail;I dream upon the night-hawks peopling heaven,Each circling each with vague unearthly cry,Or plunging headlong with fierce twang afar;And on the bat's mute antics, who would seemDimly to have made out my secret place,Only to lose it when he pirouettes,And seek it endlessly with purblind haste;On the last swallow's sweep; and on the raspIn the abyss of odor and rustle at my back,That, silenced by my advent, finds once more,After an interval, his instrument,And tries once—twice—and thrice if I be there;And on the worn book of old-golden songI brought not here to read, it seems, but holdAnd freshen in this air of withering sweetness;But on the memory of one absent most,For whom these lines when they shall greet her eye.

WHEN I was young, we dwelt in a valeBy a misty fen that rang all night,And thus it was the maidens paleI knew so well, whose garments trailAcross the reeds to a window light.The fen had every kind of bloom,And for every kind there was a face,And a voice that has sounded in my roomAcross the sill from the outer gloom.Each came singly unto her place,But all came every night with the mist;And often they brought so much to sayOf things of moment to which, they wist,One so lonely was fain to list,That the stars were almost faded awayBefore the last went, heavy with dew,Back to the place from which she came—Where the bird was before it flew,Where the flower was before it grew,Where bird and flower were one and the same.And thus it is I know so wellWhy the flower has odor, the bird has song.You have only to ask me, and I can tell.No, not vainly there did I dwell,Nor vainly listen all the night long.

I HAD withdrawn in forest, and my songWas swallowed up in leaves that blew alway;And to the forest edge you came one day(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,But did not enter, though the wish was strong:You shook your pensive head as who should say,'I dare not—too far in his footsteps stray—He must seek me would he undo the wrong.Not far, but near, I stood and saw it allBehind low boughs the trees let down outside;And the sweet pang it cost me not to callAnd tell you that I saw does still abide.But 'tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.

THEY leave us so to the way we took,As two in whom they were proved mistaken,That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look,And try if we cannot feel forsaken.

IF tired of trees I seek again mankind,Well I know where to hie me—in the dawn,To a slope where the cattle keep the lawn.There amid lolling juniper reclined,Myself unseen, I see in white definedFar off the homes of men, and farther still,The graves of men on an opposing hill,Living or dead, whichever are to mind.And if by moon I have too much of these,I have but to turn on my arm, and lo,The sun-burned hillside sets my face aglow,My breathing shakes the bluet like a breeze,I smell the earth, I smell the bruisèd plant,I look into the crater of the ant.

THERE was never a sound beside the wood but one,And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—And that was why it whispered and did not speak.It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weakTo the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

THE well was dry beside the door,And so we went with pail and canAcross the fields behind the houseTo seek the brook if still it ran;Not loth to have excuse to go,Because the autumn eve was fair(Though chill), because the fields were ours,And by the brook our woods were there.We ran as if to meet the moonThat slowly dawned behind the trees,The barren boughs without the leaves,Without the birds, without the breeze.But once within the wood, we pausedLike gnomes that hid us from the moon,Ready to run to hiding newWith laughter when she found us soon.Each laid on other a staying handTo listen ere we dared to look,And in the hush we joined to makeWe heard, we knew we heard the brook.A note as from a single place,A slender tinkling fall that madeNow drops that floated on the poolLike pearls, and now a silver blade.

WE make ourselves a place apartBehind light words that tease and flout,But oh, the agitated heartTill someone find us really out.'Tis pity if the case require(Or so we say) that in the endWe speak the literal to inspireThe understanding of a friend.But so with all, from babes that playAt hide-and-seek to God afar,So all who hide too well awayMust speak and tell us where they are.

EVEN the bravest that are slainShall not dissemble their surpriseOn waking to find valor reign,Even as on earth, in paradise;And where they sought without the swordWide fields of asphodel fore'er,To find that the utmost rewardOf daring should be still to dare.The light of heaven falls whole and whiteAnd is not shattered into dyes,The light for ever is morning light;The hills are verdured pasture-wise;The angel hosts with freshness go,And seek with laughter what to brave;—And binding all is the hushed snowOf the far-distant breaking wave.And from a cliff-top is proclaimedThe gathering of the souls for birth,The trial by existence named,The obscuration upon earth.And the slant spirits trooping byIn streams and cross- and counter-streamsCan but give ear to that sweet cryFor its suggestion of what dreams!And the more loitering are turnedTo view once more the sacrificeOf those who for some good discernedWill gladly give up paradise.And a white shimmering concourse rollsToward the throne to witness thereThe speeding of devoted soulsWhich God makes his especial care.And none are taken but who will,Having first heard the life read outThat opens earthward, good and ill,Beyond the shadow of a doubt;And very beautifully God limns,And tenderly, life's little dream,But naught extenuates or dims,Setting the thing that is supreme.Nor is there wanting in the pressSome spirit to stand simply forth,Heroic in its nakedness,Against the uttermost of earth.The tale of earth's unhonored thingsSounds nobler there than 'neath the sun;And the mind whirls and the heart sings,And a shout greets the daring one.But always God speaks at the end:'One thought in agony of strifeThe bravest would have by for friend,The memory that he chose the life;But the pure fate to which you goAdmits no memory of choice,Or the woe were not earthly woeTo which you give the assenting voice.'And so the choice must be again,But the last choice is still the same;And the awe passes wonder then,And a hush falls for all acclaim.And God has taken a flower of goldAnd broken it, and used therefromThe mystic link to bind and holdSpirit to matter till death come.'Tis of the essence of life here,Though we choose greatly, still to lackThe lasting memory at all clear,That life has for us on the wrackNothing but what we somehow chose;Thus are we wholly stripped of prideIn the pain that has but one close,Bearing it crushed and mystified.

THUS of old the Douglas did:He left his land as he was bidWith the royal heart of Robert the BruceIn a golden case with a golden lid,To carry the same to the Holy Land;By which we see and understandThat that was the place to carry a heartAt loyalty and love's command,And that was the case to carry it in.The Douglas had not far to winBefore he came to the land of Spain,Where long a holy war had beenAgainst the too-victorious Moor;And there his courage could not endureNot to strike a blow for GodBefore he made his errand sure.And ever it was intended so,That a man for God should strike a blow,No matter the heart he has in chargeFor the Holy Land where hearts should go.But when in battle the foe were met,The Douglas found him sore beset,With only strength of the fighting armFor one more battle passage yet—And that as vain to save the dayAs bring his body safe away—Only a signal deed to doAnd a last sounding word to say.The heart he wore in a golden chainHe swung and flung forth into the plain,And followed it crying 'Heart or death!'And fighting over it perished fain.So may another do of right,Give a heart to the hopeless fight,The more of right the more he loves;So may another redouble mightFor a few swift gleams of the angry brand,Scorning greatly not to demandIn equal sacrifice with hisThe heart he bore to the Holy Land.

I WENT to turn the grass once after oneWho mowed it in the dew before the sun.The dew was gone that made his blade so keenBefore I came to view the leveled 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 byOn noiseless wing a 'wildered butterfly,Seeking with memories grown dim o'er nightSome 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 lookAt a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had sparedBeside 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 speechWith one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.'Men work together,' I told him from the heart,'Whether they work together or apart.'

TWO fairies it wasOn a still summer dayCame forth in the woodsWith the flowers to play.The flowers they pluckedThey cast on the groundFor others, and thoseFor still others they found.Flower-guided it wasThat they came as they ranOn something that layIn the shape of a man.The snow must have madeThe feathery bedWhen this one fellOn the sleep of the dead.But the snow was goneA long time ago,And the body he woreNigh gone with the snow.The fairies drew nearAnd keenly espiedA ring on his handAnd a chain at his side.They knelt in the leavesAnd eerily playedWith the glittering things,And were not afraid.And when they went homeTo hide in their burrow,They took them alongTo play with to-morrow.When you came on death,Did you not come flower-guidedLike the elves in the wood?I remember that I did.But I recognised deathWith sorrow and dread,And I hated and hateThe spoils of the dead.

PAN came out of the woods one day,—His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,The gray of the moss of walls were they,—And stood in the sun and looked his fillAt wooded valley and wooded hill.He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,On a height of naked pasture land;In all the country he did commandHe saw no smoke and he saw no roof.That was well! and he stamped a hoof.His heart knew peace, for none came hereTo this lean feeding save once a yearSomeone to salt the half-wild steer,Or homespun children with clicking pailsWho see no little they tell no tales.He tossed his pipes, too hard to teachA new-world song, far out of reach,For a sylvan sign that the blue jay's screechAnd the whimper of hawks beside the sunWere music enough for him, for one.Times were changed from what they were:Such pipes kept less of power to stirThe fruited bough of the juniperAnd the fragile bluets clustered thereThan the merest aimless breath of air.They were pipes of pagan mirth,And the world had found new terms of worth.He laid him down on the sun-burned earthAnd ravelled a flower and looked away—Play? Play?—What should he play?

IT was far in the sameness of the wood;I was running with joy on the Demon's trail,Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.It was just as the light was beginning to failThat I suddenly heard—all I needed to hear:It has lasted me many and many a year.The sound was behind me instead of before,A sleepy sound, but mocking half,As of one who utterly couldn't care.The Demon arose from his wallow to laugh,Brushing the dirt from his eye as he went;And well I knew what the Demon meant.I shall not forget how his laugh rang out.I felt as a fool to have been so caught,And checked my steps to make pretenceIt was something among the leaves I sought(Though doubtful whether he stayed to see).Thereafter I sat me against a tree.

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,It will be long ere the earliest bird:So close the windows and not hear the wind,But see all wind-stirred.

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