The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSelected PoemsThis 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: Selected PoemsAuthor: Robert FrostRelease date: June 27, 2019 [eBook #59824]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Imagesgenerously made available by Hathi Trust.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED POEMS ***
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: Selected PoemsAuthor: Robert FrostRelease date: June 27, 2019 [eBook #59824]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Imagesgenerously made available by Hathi Trust.)
Title: Selected Poems
Author: Robert Frost
Author: Robert Frost
Release date: June 27, 2019 [eBook #59824]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Imagesgenerously made available by Hathi Trust.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED POEMS ***
The poems included in this volume are reprinted from "Mountain Interval" "North of Boston" and "A Boy's Will."
CONTENTS
ITHE PASTURETHE COW IN APPLE-TIMETHE RUNAWAYIIAN OLD MAN'S WINTER NIGHTHOME BURIALTHE DEATH OF THE HIRED MANA SERVANT TO SERVANTSTHE SELF-SEEKERTHE HILL WIFE"OUT, OUT...."IIIPUTTING IN THE SEEDGOING FOR WATERMOWINGIVAFTER APPLE-PICKINGBIRCHESTHE GUM-GATHERERTHE MOUNTAINTHE TUFT OF FLOWERSMENDING WALLAN ENCOUNTERTHE WOOD-PILEVSNOWIN THE HOME STRETCHVITHE ROAD NOT TAKENTHE OVEN BIRDA VANTAGE POINTTHE SOUND OF TREESHYLA BROOKMY NOVEMBER GUESTRANGE-FINDINGOCTOBERTO THE THAWING WINDVIIA TIME TO TALKTHE CODEA HUNDRED COLLARSBLUEBERRIESBROWN'S DESCENT OR, THE WILLY-NILLY SLIDEVIIIREVELATIONSTORM-FEARBOND AND FREEFLOWER-GATHERINGRELUCTANCEINTO MY OWN
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;I'll only stop to rake the leaves away(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):I shan't be gone long.—You come too.I'm going out to fetch the little calfThat's standing by the mother. It's so young,It totters when she licks it with her tongue.I shan't be gone long.—You come too.
Something inspires the only cow of lateTo make no more of a wall than an open gate,And think no more of wall-builders than fools.Her face is flecked with pomace and she droolsA cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,She scorns a pasture withering to the root.She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweetenThe windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.She bellows on a knoll against the sky.Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.
Once when the snow of the year was beginning tofall,We stopped by a mountain pasture to say "Whosecolt?"A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,The other curled at his breast. He dipped his headAnd snorted at us. And then he had to bolt.We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim andgrey,Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes."I think the little fellow's afraid of the snow.He isn't winter-broken. It isn't playWith the little fellow at all. He's running away.I doubt if even his mother could tell him, 'Sakes,It's only weather.' He'd think she didn't know!Where is his mother? He can't be out alone."And now he comes again with a clatter of stoneAnd mounts the wall again with whited eyesAnd all his tail that isn't hair up straight.He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies."Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,When other creatures have gone to stall and bin,Ought to be told to come and take him in."
All out of doors looked darkly in at himThrough the thin frost, almost in separate stars,That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.What kept his eyes from giving back the gazeWas the lamp tilted near them in his hand.What kept him from remembering what it wasThat brought him to that creaking room was age.He stood with barrels round him—at a loss.And having scared the cellar under himIn clomping there, he scared it once againIn clomping off;—and scared the outer night,Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roarOf trees and crack of branches, common things,But nothing so like beating on a box.A light he was to no one but himselfWhere now he sat, concerned with he knew what,A quiet light, and then not even that.He consigned to the moon, such as she was,So late-arising, to the broken moonAs better than the sun in any caseFor such a charge, his snow upon the roof,His icicles along the wall to keep;And slept. The log that shifted with a joltOnce in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.One aged man—one man—can't keep a house,A farm, a countryside, or if he can,It's thus he does it of a winter night.
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 helpWith 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 mindthose.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'tneed 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 offence.I don't know how to speak of anythingSo as to please you. But I might be taughtI should suppose. I can't say I see how.A man must partly give up being a manWith women-folk. We could have somearrangementBy 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 thatlove.Two that don't love can't live together withoutthem.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.If you had any feelings, you that dugWith your own hand—how could you?—his littlegrave;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?Youcouldn'tcare! 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 pretence 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?Amy! 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 makeyou——""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. Iwill!——"
Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the tableWaiting for Warren. When she heard his step,She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passageTo meet him in the doorway with the newsAnd put him on his guard. "Silas is back."She pushed him outward with her through the doorAnd shut it after her. "Be kind," she said.She took the market things from Warren's armsAnd set them on the porch, then drew him downTo sit beside her on the wooden steps."When was I ever anything but kind to him?But I'll not have the fellow back," he said."I told him so last haying, didn't I?'If he left then,' I said, 'that ended it.'What good is he? Who else will harbour himAt his age for the little he can do?What help he is there's no depending on.Off he goes always when I need him most.'He thinks he ought to earn a little pay,Enough at least to buy tobacco with,So he won't have to beg and be beholden.''All right,' I say, 'I can't afford to payAny fixed wages, though I wish I could.''Someone else can.' 'Then someone else will haveto.'I shouldn't mind his bettering himselfIf that was what it was. You can be certain,When he begins like that, there's someone at himTrying to coax him off with pocket-money,—In haying time, when any help is scarce.In winter he comes back to us. I'm done.""Sh! not so loud: he'll hear you," Mary said."I want him to: he'll have to soon or late.""He's worn out. He's asleep beside the stove.When I came up from Rowe's I found him here,Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep,A miserable sight, and frightening, too—You needn't smile—I didn't recognise him—I wasn't looking for him—and he's changed.Wait till you see.""Where did you say he'd been?""He didn't say. I dragged him to the house,And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke.I tried to make him talk about his travels.Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off.""What did he say? Did he say anything?""But little.""Anything? Mary, confessHe said he'd come to ditch the meadow for me.""Warren!""But did he? I just want to know.""Of course he did. What would you have him say?Surely you wouldn't grudge the poor old manSome humble way to save his self-respect.He added, if you really care to know,He meant to clear the upper pasture, too.That sounds like something you have heard before?Warren, I wish you could have heard the wayHe jumbled everything. I stopped to lookTwo or three times—he made me feel so queer—To see if he was talking in his sleep.He ran on Harold Wilson—you remember—The boy you had in haying four years since.He's finished school, and teaching in his college.Silas declares you'll have to get him back.He says they two will make a team for work:Between them they will lay this farm as smooth!The way he mixed that in with other things.He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daftOn education—you know how they foughtAll through July under the blazing sun,Silas up on the cart to build the load,Harold along beside to pitch it on.""Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot.""Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream.You wouldn't think they would. How some thingslinger!Harold's young college boy's assurance piqued him.After so many years he still keeps findingGood arguments he sees he might have used.I sympathise. I know just how it feelsTo think of the right thing to say too late.Harold's associated in his mind with Latin.He asked me what I thought of Harold's sayingHe studied Latin like the violinBecause he liked it—that an argument!He said he couldn't make the boy believeHe could find water with a hazel prong—Which showed how much good school had ever donehim.He wanted to go over that. But most of allHe thinks if he could have another chanceTo teach him how to build a load of hay——""I know, that's Silas' one accomplishment.He bundles every forkful in its place,And tags and numbers it for future reference,So he can find and easily dislodge itIn the unloading. Silas does that well.He takes it out in bunches like big birds' nests.You never see him standing on the hayHe's trying to lift, straining to lift himself.""He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd beSome good perhaps to someone in the world.He hates to see a boy the fool of books.Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk,And nothing to look backward to with pride,And nothing to look forward to with hope,So now and never any different."Part of a moon was falling down the west,Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.Its light poured softly in her lap. She sawAnd spread her apron to it. She put out her handAmong the harp-like morning-glory strings,Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,As if she played unheard the tendernessThat wrought on him beside her in the night."Warren," she said, "he has come home to die:You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time.""Home," he mocked gently."Yes, what else but home?It all depends on what you mean by home.Of course he's nothing to us, any moreThan was the hound that came a stranger to usOut of the woods, worn out upon the trail.""Home is the place where, when you have to gothere,They have to take you in.""I should have called itSomething you somehow haven't to deserve."Warren leaned out and took a step or two,Picked up a little stick, and brought it backAnd broke it in his hand and tossed it by."Silas has better claim on us, you think,Than on his brother? Thirteen little milesAs the road winds would bring him to his door.Silas has walked that far no doubt to-day.Why didn't he go there? His brother's rich,A somebody—director in the bank.""He never told us that.""We know it though.""I think his brother ought to help, of course.I'll see to that if there is need. He ought of rightTo take him in, and might be willing to—He may be better than appearances.But have some pity on Silas. Do you thinkIf he'd had any pride in claiming kinOr anything he looked for from his brother,He'd keep so still about him all this time?""I wonder what's between them.""I can tell you.Silas is what he is—we wouldn't mind him—But just the kind that kinsfolk can't abide.He never did a thing so very bad.He don't know why he isn't quite as goodAs anyone. He won't be made ashamedTo please his brother, worthless though he is.""Ican't think Si ever hurt anyone.""No, but he hurt my heart the way he layAnd rolled his old head on that sharp-edgedchair-back.He wouldn't let me put him on the lounge.You must go in and see what you can do.I made the bed up for him there to-night.You'll be surprised at him—how much he's broken.His working days are done; I'm sure of it.""I'd not be in a hurry to say that.""I haven't been. Go, look, see for yourself.But, Warren, please remember how it is:He's come to help you ditch the meadow.He has a plan. You mustn't laugh at him.He may not speak of it, and then he may.I'll sit and see if that small sailing cloudWill hit or miss the moon."It hit the moon.Then there were three there, making a dim row,The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.Warren returned—too soon, it seemed to her,Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited."Warren," she questioned."Dead," was all he answered.
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 Iamglad, 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 andwhiter.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 anywhereWe 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 s'pose 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'splay—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 tobekept.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 shan't catch up in this world, anyway.I'd rather you'd not go unless you must.
"Willis, I didn't want you here to-day:The lawyer's coming for the company.I'm going to sell my soul, or, rather, feet.Five hundred dollars for the pair, you know.""With you the feet have nearly been the soul;And if you're going to sell them to the devil,I want to see you do it. When's he coming?""I half suspect you knew, and came on purposeTo try to help me drive a better bargain.""Well, if it's true! Yours are no common feet.The lawyer don't know what it is he's buying:So many miles you might have walked you won'twalk.You haven't run your forty orchids down.What does he think?—Howarethe blessed feet?The doctor's sure you're going to walk again?""He thinks I'll hobble. It's both legs and feet.""They must be terrible—I mean to look at.""I haven't dared to look at them uncovered.Through the bed blankets I remind myselfOf a starfish laid out with rigid points.""The wonder is it hadn't been your head.""It's hard to tell you how I managed it.When I saw the shaft had me by the coat,I didn't try too long to pull away,Or fumble for my knife to cut away,I just embraced the shaft and rode it out—Till Weiss shut off the water in the wheel-pit.That's how I think I didn't lose my head,But my legs got their knocks against the ceiling.""Awful. Why didn't they throw off the beltInstead of going clear down in the wheel-pit?""They say sometime was wasted on the belt—Old streak of leather—doesn't love me muchBecause I made him spit fire at my knuckles,The way Ben Franklin used to make the kite-string.That must be it. Some days he won't stay on.That day a woman couldn't coax him off.He's on his rounds now with his tail in his mouthSnatched right and left across the silver pulleys.Everything goes the same without me there.You can hear the small buzz saws whine, the big sawCaterwaul to the hills around the villageAs they both bite the wood. It's all our music.One ought as a good villager to like it.No doubt it has a sort of prosperous sound,And it's our life.""Yes, when it's not our death.""You make that sound as if it wasn't soWith everything. What we live by we die by.I wonder where my lawyer is. His train's in.I want this over with; I'm hot and tired.""You're getting ready to do something foolish.""Watch for him, will you, Will? You let him in.I'd rather Mrs. Corbin didn't know;I've boarded here so long, she thinks she owns me.You're bad enough to manage without her.""And I'm going to be worse instead of better.You've got to tell me how far this is gone:Have you agreed to any price?""Five hundred.Five hundred—five—five! One, two, three, four,five. You needn't look at me.""I don't believe you.""I told you, Willis, when you first came in.Don't you be hard on me. I have to takeWhat I can get. You see they have the feet,Which gives them the advantage in the trade.I can't get back the feet in any case.""But your flowers, man, you're selling out yourflowers.""Yes, that's one way to put it—all the flowersOf every kind everywhere in this regionFor the next forty summers—call it forty.But I'm not selling those, I'm giving them,They never earned me so much as one cent:Money can't pay me for the loss of them.No, the five hundred was the sum they namedTo pay the doctor's bill and tide me over.It's that or fight, and I don't want to fight—I just want to get settled in my life,Such as it's going to be, and know the worst,Or best—it may not be so bad. The firmPromise me all the shooks I want to nail.""But what about your flora of the valley?""You have me there. But that—you didn't thinkThat was worth money to me? Still, I ownIt goes against me not to finish itFor the friends it might bring me. By the way,I had a letter from Burroughs—did I tell you?—About myCyprepedium reginœ;He says it's not reported so far north.There! there's the bell. He's rung. But you godownAnd bring him up, and don't let Mrs. Corbin.—Oh, well, we'll soon be through with it. I'm tired."Willis brought up besides the Boston lawyerA little barefoot girl who in the noiseOf heavy footsteps in the old frame house,And baritone importance of the lawyer,Stood for a while unnoticed with her handsShyly behind her."Well, and how is Mister—"The lawyer was already in his satchelAs if for papers that might bear the nameHe hadn't at command. "You must excuse me,I dropped in at the mill and was detained.""Looking round, I suppose," said Willis."Yes,Well, yes.""Hear anything that might prove useful?"The Broken One saw Anne. "Why, here is AnneWhat do you want, dear? Come, stand by the bed;Tell me what is it?" Anne just wagged her dressWith both hands held behind her. "Guess," shesaid."Oh, guess which hand? My, my! Once on atimeI knew a lovely way to tell for certainBy looking in the ears. But I forget it.Er, let me see. I think I'll take the right.That's sure to be right even if it's wrong.Come, hold it out. Don't change.—A Ram's Hornorchid!A Ram's Horn! What would I have got, I wonder,If I had chosen left. Hold out the left.Another Ram's Horn! Where did you find those,Under what beech tree, on what woodchuck's knoll?"Anne looked at the large lawyer at her side,And thought she wouldn't venture on so much."Were there no others?""There were four or five.I knew you wouldn't let me pick them all.""I wouldn't—so I wouldn't. You're the girl!You see Anne has her lesson learned by heart.""I wanted there should be some there next year.""Of course you did. You left the rest for seed,And for the backwoods woodchuck. You're the girl!A Ram's Horn orchid seedpod for a woodchuckSounds something like. Better than farmer's beansTo a discriminating appetite,Though the Ram's Horn is seldom to be hadIn bushel lots—doesn't come on the market.But, Anne, I'm troubled; have you told me all?You're hiding something. That's as bad as lying.You ask this lawyer man. And it's not safeWith a lawyer at hand to find you out.Nothing is hidden from some people, Anne.You don't tell me that where you found a Ram'sHornYou didn't find a Yellow Lady's Slipper.What did I tell you? What? I'd blush, I would.Don't you defend yourself. If it was there,Where is it now, the Yellow Lady's Slipper?""Well, wait—it's common—it's toocommon.""Common?The Purple Lady's Slipper's commoner.""I didn't bring a Purple Lady's SlipperToYou—to you I mean—they're both toocommon."The lawyer gave a laugh among his papersAs if with some idea that she had scored."I've broken Anne of gathering bouquets.It's not fair to the child. It can't be helpedthough:Pressed into service means pressed out of shape.Somehow I'll make it right with her—she'll see.She's going to do my scouting in the field,Over stone walls and all along a woodAnd by a river bank for water flowers,The floating Heart, with small leaf like a heart,And at thesinusunder water a fistOf little fingers all kept down but one,And that thrust up to blossom in the sunAs if to say 'You! You're the Heart's desire.'Anne has a way with flowers to take the placeOf that she's lost: she goes down on one kneeAnd lifts their faces by the chin to hersAnd says their names, and leaves them where theyare."The lawyer wore a watch the case of whichWas cunningly devised to make a noiseLike a small pistol when he snapped it shutAt such a time as this. He snapped it now."Well, Anne, go, dearie. Our affair will wait.The lawyer man is thinking of his train.He wants to give me lots and lots of moneyBefore he goes, because I hurt myself,And it may take him I don't know how long.But put our flowers in water first. Will, help her:The pitcher's too full for her. There's no cup?Just hook them on the inside of the pitcher.Now run.—Get out your documents! You seeI have to keep on the good side of Anne.I'm a great boy to think of number one.And you can't blame me in the place I'm in.Who will take care of my necessitiesUnless I do?""A pretty interlude,"The lawyer said: "I'm sorry, but my train——Luckily terms are all agreed upon.You only have to sign your name. Right—there.""You, Will, stop making faces. Come round hereWhere you can't make them. What is it you want?I'll put you out with Anne. Be good or go.""You don't mean you will sign that thing unread?""Make yourself useful then, and read it for me.Isn't it something I have seen before?""You'll find it is. Let your friend look at it.""Yes, but all that takes time, and I'm as muchIn haste to get it over with as you.But read it, read it. That's right, draw the curtain:Half the time I don't know what's troubling me.—What do you say, Will? Don't you be a fool.You! crumpling folkses' legal documents.Out with it if you've any real objection.""Five hundred dollars!""What would you think right?""A thousand wouldn't be a cent too much;You know it, Mr. Lawyer. The sin isAccepting anything before he knowsWhether he's ever going to walk again.It smells to me like a dishonest trick.""I think—I think—from what I heard to-day—And saw myself—he would be ill-advised——""What did you hear, for instance?" Willis said."Now the place where the accident occurred——"The Broken One was twisted in his bed."This is between you two apparently.Where I come in is what I want to know.You stand up to it like a pair of cocks.Go outdoors if you want to fight. Spare me.When you come back, I'll have the papers signed.Will pencil do? Then, please, your fountain pen.One of you hold my head up from the pillow."Willis flung off the bed. "I wash my hands—I'm no match—no, and don't pretend to be——"The lawyer gravely capped his fountain pen."You're doing the wise thing: you won't regret it.We're very sorry for you."Willis sneered:"Who'swe?—some stockholders in Boston?I'll go outdoors, by gad! and won't come back.""Willis, bring Anne back with you when you come.Yes. Thanks for caring. Don't mind Will: he'ssavage.He thinks you ought to pay me for my flowers.You don't know what I mean about the flowers.Don't stop to try now. You'll miss your train.Good-bye." He flung his arms around his face.
One ought not to have to careSo much as you and ICare when the birds come round the houseTo seem to say good-bye;Or care so much when they come backWith whatever it is they sing;The truth being we are as muchToo glad for the one thingAs we are too sad for the other here—With birds that fill their breastsBut with each other and themselvesAnd their built or driven nests.
Always—I tell you this they learned—Always at night when they returnedTo the lonely house from far awayTo lamps unlighted and fire gone gray,They learned to rattle the lock and keyTo give whatever might chance to beWarning and time to be off in flight:And preferring the out- to the in-door night,They learned to leave the house-door wideUntil they had lit the lamp inside.
I didn't like the way he went away.That smile! It never came of being gay.Still, he smiled—did you see him?—I was sure!Perhaps because we gave him only breadAnd the wretch knew from that that we were poor.Perhaps because he let us give insteadOf seizing from us as he might have seized.Perhaps he mocked at us for being wed,Or being very young (and he was pleasedTo have a vision of us old and dead).I wonder how far down the road he's got.He's watching from the woods as like as not.
She had no saying dark enoughFor the dark pine that keptForever trying the window-latchOf the room where they slept.The tireless but ineffectual handsThat with every futile passMade the great tree seem as a little birdBefore the mystery of glass!It never had been inside the room,And only one of the twoWas afraid in an oft-repeated dreamOf what the tree might do.
It was too lonely for her there,And too wild,And since there were but two of them,And no child,And work was little in the house,She was free,And followed where he furrowed field,Or felled tree.She rested on a log and tossedThe fresh chips,With a song only to herselfOn her lips.And once she went to break a boughOf black alder.She strayed so far she scarcely heardWhen he called her—And didn't answer—didn't speak—Or return.She stood, and then she ran and hidIn the fern.He never found her, though he lookedEverywhere,And he asked at her mother's houseWas she there.Sudden and swift and light as thatThe ties gave,And he learned of finalitiesBesides the grave.
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yardAnd made dust and dropped stove-length sticks ofwood,Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.And from there those that lifted eyes could countFive mountain ranges one behind the otherUnder the sunset far into Vermont.And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,As it ran light, or had to bear a load.And nothing happened: day was all but done.Call it a day, I wish they might have saidTo please the boy by giving him the half hourThat a boy counts so much when saved from work.His sister stood beside them in her apronTo tell them "Supper." At the word, the saw,As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap—He must have given the hand. However it was,Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh.As he swung toward them holding up the handHalf in appeal, but half as if to keepThe life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—Since he was old enough to know, big boyDoing a man's work, though a child at heart—He saw all spoiled. "Don't let him cut my hand of—The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!"So. But the hand was gone already.The doctor put him in the dark of ether.He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.No one believed. They listened at his heart.Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.No more to build on there. And they, since theyWere not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
You come to fetch me from my work to-nightWhen supper's on the table, and we'll seeIf I can leave off burying the whiteSoft petals fallen from the apple tree(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkledpea);And go along with you ere you lose sightOf what you came for and become like me,Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.How Love bums through the Putting in the SeedOn through the watching for that early birthWhen, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,The sturdy seedling with arched body comesShouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.
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.
There was never a sound beside the wood but one,And that was my long scythe whispering to theground.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 seemedtoo 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 labour knows.My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a treeToward heaven still,And there's a barrel that I didn't fillBeside it, and there may be two or threeApples I didn't pick upon some bough.But I am done with apple-picking now.Essence of winter sleep is on the night,The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.I cannot rub the strangeness from my sightI got from looking through a pane of glassI skimmed this morning from the drinking troughAnd held against the world of hoary grass.It melted, and I let it fall and break.But I was wellUpon my way to sleep before it fell,And I could tellWhat form my dreaming was about to take.Magnified apples appear and disappear,Stem end and blossom end,And every fleck of russet showing clear.My instep arch not only keeps the ache,It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.And I keep hearing from the cellar binThe rumbling soundOf load on load of apples coming in.For I have had too muchOf apple-picking: I am overtiredOf the great harvest I myself desired.There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.For allThat struck the earth,No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,Went surely to the cider-apple heapAs of no worth.One can see what will troubleThis sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.Were he not gone,The woodchuck could say whether it's like hisLong sleep, as I describe its coming on,Or just some human sleep.
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 crystalshellsShattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—Such heaps of broken glass to sweep awayYou'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.They are dragged to the withered bracken by theload,And they seem not to break; though once they arebowedSo 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 wilfully 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 tree,And climb black branches up a snow-white trunkTowardheaven, 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.
There overtook me and drew me inTo his down-hill, early-morning stride,And set me five miles on my roadBetter than if he had had me ride,A man with a swinging bag for loadAnd half the bag wound round his hand.We talked like barking above the dinOf water we walked along beside.And for my telling him where I'd beenAnd where I lived in mountain landTo be coming home the way I was,He told me a little about himself.He came from higher up in the passWhere the grist of the new-beginning brooksIs blocks split off the mountain mass—And hopeless grist enough it looksEver to grind to soil for grass.(The way it is will do for moss.)There he had built his stolen shack.It had to be a stolen shackBecause of the fears of fire and lossThat trouble the sleep of lumber folk:Visions of half the world burned blackAnd the sun shrunken yellow in smoke.We know who when they come to townBring berries under the wagon seat,Or a basket of eggs between their feet;What this man brought in a cotton sackWas gum, the gum of the mountain spruce.He showed me lumps of the scented stuffLike uncut jewels, dull and rough.It comes to market golden brown;But turns to pink between the teeth.I told him this is a pleasant lifeTo set your breast to the bark of treesThat all your days are dim beneath,And reaching up with a little knife,To loose the resin and take it downAnd bring it to market when you please.
The mountain held the town as in a shadow.I saw so much before I slept there once:I noticed that I missed stars in the west,Where its black body cut into the sky.Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wallBehind which I was sheltered from a wind.And yet between the town and it I found,When I walked forth at dawn to see new things,Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields.The river at the time was fallen away,And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones;But the signs showed what it had done in spring;Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grassRidges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark.I crossed the river and swung round the mountain.And there I met a man who moved so slowWith white-faced oxen in a heavy cart,It seemed no harm to stop him altogether."What town is this?" I asked."This? Lunenburg."Then I was wrong: the town of my sojourn,Beyond the bridge, was not that of the mountain,But only felt at night its shadowy presence."Where is your village? Very far from here?""There is no village—only scattered farms.We were but sixty voters last election.We can't in nature grow to many more:That thing takes all the room!" He moved his goad.The mountain stood there to be pointed at.Pasture ran up the side a little way,And then there was a wall of trees with trunks:After that only tops of trees, and cliffsImperfectly concealed among the leaves.A dry ravine emerged from under boughsInto the pasture."That looks like a path.Is that the way to reach the top from here?—Not for this morning, but some other time:I must be getting back to breakfast now.""I don't advise your trying from this side.There is no proper path, but those thathaveBeen up, I understand, have climbed from Ladd's.That's five miles back. You can't mistake the place:They logged it there last winter some way up.I'd take you, but I'm bound the other way.""You've never climbed it?""I've been on the sidesDeer-hunting and trout-fishing. There's a brookThat starts up on it somewhere—I've heard sayRight on the top, tip-top—a curious thing.But what would interest you about the brook,It's always cold in summer, warm in winter.One of the great sights going is to seeIt steam in winter like an ox's breath.Until the bushes all along its banksAre inch-deep with the frosty spines and bristles—You know the kind. Then let the sun shine on it!""There ought to be a view around the worldFrom such a mountain—if it isn't woodedClear to the top." I saw through leafy screensGreat granite terraces in sun and shadow,Shelves one could rest a knee on getting up—With depths behind him sheer a hundred feet;Or turn and sit on and look out and down,With little ferns in crevices at his elbow.v"As to that I can't say. But there's the spring,Right on the summit, almost like a fountain.That ought to be worth seeing.""If it's there.You never saw it?""I guess there's no doubtAbout its being there. I never saw it.It may not be right on the very top:It wouldn't have to be a long way downTo have some head of water from above,And agood distancedown might not be noticedBy anyone who'd come a long way up.One time I asked a fellow climbing itTo look and tell me later how it was.""What did he say?""He said there was a lakeSomewhere in Ireland on a mountain top.""But a lake's different. What about the spring?""He never got up high enough to see.That's why I don't advise your trying this side.He tried this side. I've always meant to goAnd look myself, but you know how it is:It doesn't seem so much to climb a mountainYou've worked around the foot of all your life.What would I do? Go in my overalls,With a big stick, the same as when the cowsHaven't come down to the bars at milking time?Or with a shotgun for a stray black bear?'Twouldn't seem real to climb for climbing it.""I shouldn't climb it if I didn't want to—Not for the sake of climbing. What's its name?""We call it Hor: I don't know if that's right.""Can one walk round it? Would it be too far?""You can drive round and keep in Lunenburg,But it's as much as ever you can do,The boundary lines keep in so close to it.Hor is the township, and the township's Hor—Anda few houses sprinkled round the foot,Like boulders broken off the upper cliff,Rolled out a little farther than the rest.""Warm in December, cold in June, you say?""I don't suppose the waters changed at all.You and I know enough to know it's warmCompared with cold, and cold compared with warm.But all the fun's in how you say a thing.""You've lived here all your life?""Ever since HorWas no bigger than a——" What, I did not hear.He drew the oxen toward him with light touchesOf his slim goad on nose and offside flank,Gave them their marching orders, and was moving.
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 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 byOn noiseless wing a bewildered 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."
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 repairWhere 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 lineAnd 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 ballsWe 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 acrossAnd 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 wonderIf I could put a notion in his head:"Whydo they make good neighbours? Isn't itWhere there are cows? But here there are no cows.Before I built a wall I'd ask to knowWhat 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 ratherHe said it for himself. I see him thereBringing a stone grasped firmly by the topIn 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 wellHe says again, "Good fences make goodneighbours."
Once on the kind of day called "weather breeder,"When the heat slowly hazes and the sunBy its own power seems to be undone,I was half boring through, half climbing through,A swamp of cedar. Choked with oil of cedarAnd scurf of plants, and weary and over-heated,And sorry I ever left the road I knew,I paused and rested on a sort of hookThat had me by the coat as good as seated,And since there was no other way to look,Looked up toward heaven, and there against theblueStood over me a resurrected tree,A tree that had been down and raised again—A barkless spectre. He had halted too,As if for fear of treading upon me.I saw the strange position of his hands—Up at his shoulders, dragging yellow strandsOf wire with something in it from men to men."You here?" I said. "Where aren't you nowadays?And what's the news you carry—if you know?And tell me where you're off for—Montreal?Me? I'm not off for anywhere at all.Sometimes I wander out of beaten waysHalf looking for the orchid Calypso."
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray dayI 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 thenOne foot went through. The view was all in linesStraight up and down of tall slim treesToo much alike to mark or name a place bySo as to say for certain I was hereOr somewhere else: I was just far from home.A small bird flew before me. He was carefulTo put a tree between us when he lighted,And say no word to tell me who he wasWho was so foolish as to think whathethought.He thought that I was after him for a feather—The white one in his tail; like one who takesEverything said as personal to himself.One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.And then there was a pile of wood for whichI forgot him and let his little fearCarry 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 splitAnd 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 itAnd the pile somewhat sunken. ClematisHad wound strings round and round it like a bundle.What held it though on one side was a treeStill growing, and on one a stake and prop,These latter about to fall. I thought that onlySomeone who lived in turning to fresh tasksCould so forget his handiwork on whichHe spent himself, the labour of his axe,And leave it there far from a useful fireplaceTo warm the frozen swamp as best it couldWith the slow smokeless burning of decay.