Frost was a descendant of Samuel Appletonone of the early settlers of Ipswich, Massachusettsand Rev. George Phillipsone of the early settlers of Watertown, Massachusetts.
During his later life he earned four Pulitzer Prizes, and as the unofficial U. He died of surgical complications two years later, at the age of His Works Robert Frost is arguably the greatest poet to emerge during the early part of the 20th century, and his works are now taught, analyzed, dissected, and discussed in learning institutions world-wide.
Instead, I have listed here what I consider to be ten of his greatest lesser-known poems, which you may not have ever read. I present them here in order of beauty and wonder, as I see them. His complete works can be accessed on the Internet Archive here.
The sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch, Nor strike out fire from each other nor crash out loud. The planets seem to interfere in their curves But nothing ever happens, no harm is done.
We may as well go patiently on with our life, And look elsewhere than to stars and moon and sun For the shocks and changes we need to keep us sane.
It is true the longest drought will end in rain, The longest peace in China will end in strife. That calm seems certainly safe to last to-night. The permanence and tranquility of the heavens, especially when contrasted to the chaos that makes up the human world, is reason enough to relax, and enjoy it.
He lets us know that patience truly is a virtue, and often, the more things change, the more they stay the same. For me, his philosophical poetry, when done through the medium of simple observations, speaks volumes about his true insights into the nature that is within, and around, us all.
The Birthplace West-Running Brook, Here further up the mountain slope Than there was ever any hope, My father built, enclosed a spring, Strung chains of wall round everything, Subdued the growth of earth to grass, And brought our various lives to pass.
A dozen girls and boys we were. The mountain seemed to like the stir, And made of us a little while— With always something in her smile. The mountain pushed us off her knees.
And now her lap is full of trees. As nostalgic and otherworldly as it may be for us to go back and visit the place or places we grew up, it was even more so for the generation that Robert Frost belonged to.
As a young man he witnessed the birth of the electric power grid, the impact of the industrial revolution on society and the growing transition from rural to urban life for a majority of Americans.
As part of a large family, it must have been both wondrous and in a way, disheartening, to see the mountain home from his childhood once again returned to meadows and forests after being left behind years before. I put it shining anywhere I please. This verse is one which has been analyzed by many, and the depth of meaning attributed to it is somewhat amazing.
It is postulated that Frost touches here purposefully on the freedom not of the moon, but of mankind, and that the eternal change of the moon represents a deep and symbolic allusion to the changes all people go through.
While these may or may not be valid points, the poem itself is about the majesty and the wonder that the changing view of the moon contains, for a man who walks the countryside a lot. In A Disused Graveyard The Measure, The living come with grassy tread To read the gravestones on the hill; The graveyard draws the living still, But never anymore the dead.
The verses in it say and say: What is it men are shrinking from? It would be easy to be clever And tell the stones: Men hate to die And have stopped dying now forever. I think they would believe the lie.
This poem is set in a place quite unusual for Frost—namely a cemetery. It is a cemetery that is obviously full, since even though the living still come to visit the graves, the dead no longer do.
The poem draws many contrasts between the living and their fear of death, and the gravestones themselves whose rhyme is all that remains of those who are buried there. The stones are marking time, having noticed the dead no longer come—but being stone, they would probably believe the lie that men no longer die.
Good Hours North of Boston, I had for my winter evening walk— No one at all with whom to talk, But I had the cottages in a row Up to their shining eyes in snow.
And I thought I had the folk within: I had the sound of a violin; I had a glimpse through curtain laces Of youthful forms and youthful faces. I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.- The Theme of Life and Death in Birches, by Robert Frost The poem "Birches," by Robert Frost, illustrates the authors ability to take what seems to be the mundane activities of life and turn it into something that holds a deeper meaning.
Biography of Robert Frost Robert Frost is perhaps one of America's best poets of his generation. His vivid images of nature capture the minds of readers. His poems appear to be simple, but if you look into them there is a lot of insight.
Robert Frost spoke at John F. Kennedy's inauguration. Poet Robert Frost was born in San Francisco, but his family moved to Lawrence, Massachusetts, in following his father’s death.
The move was actually a return, for Frost’s ancestors were originally New Englanders, and Frost became famous for his poetry’s “regionalism,” or engagement with New England locales, identities, and themes.
Frost uses nature and symbolism to depict various situations in life. Common characters are the subjects of his poetry and they are often from the "backwoods" of the Northeastern United States.
He focuses on personal identity as his subjects find themselves alone and far away from any large groups of people. Robert Frost - Poet - One of the most celebrated poets in America, Robert Frost was an author of searching and often dark meditations on universal themes and a quintessentially modern poet in his adherence to language as it is actually spoken, in the psychological complexity of his portraits, and in the degree to which his work is infused with layers of ambiguity and irony.
Robert Frost was born in San Francisco, California, to journalist William Prescott Frost, Jr., and Isabelle Moodie. His mother was a Scottish immigrant, and his father descended from Nicholas Frost of Tiverton, Devon, England, who had sailed to New Hampshire in on the urbanagricultureinitiative.come works: A Boy's Will, North of Boston.