罗伯特·弗罗斯特（Robert ·Frost ）（1874—1963)，美国农民诗人。生于加利福尼亚州。弗罗斯特常被称为“交替性的诗人”，意指他处在传统诗歌和现代派诗歌交替的一个时期。他又被认为与艾略特同为美国现代诗歌的两大中心。 弗罗斯特出版过十多部诗集[3]其中包括他的成名作《波士顿以北》集，另外还有《孩子的意愿》、《山罅》、《新罕布什尔》、《西流的小溪》、《见证之树》、《理智的假面具》、《慈悲的假面具》、《在林间空地》、《未选择的路》等。他的诗歌独具风格，以口语作诗，生动朴实地描写了田园风光和农村日常生活。他的诗充满了美国的乡土气息，流传广泛，深为人们喜爱。
    火与冰（余光中译）

　　有人说世界将毁灭于火，
　　有人说毁灭于冰。
　　根据我对于欲望的体验，
　　我同意毁灭于火的观点。
　　但如果它必须毁灭两次，
　　则我想我对于恨有足够的认识。
　　可以说在破坏一方面，
　　冰，
　　也同样伟大，
　　且能够胜任。.

　　这林中主人，我知道，
　　虽然他住在遥远的荒村，
　　他不会注意到我，
　　在雪花纷飞的小林中驻足凝视，
　　我的小马驹儿它困惑不已
　　在这杳无人迹之境，为何行不行？
　　白雪茫茫，笼罩着寒冷的冰原和乔木，
　　在一年中寒夜的夕阳之下。
　　马儿摇动着脖铃，
　　好像是问我可有谬误？
　　寂静无语，唯有风儿呼啸，
　　夹杂着和风软雪。
　　我将投身在这林子的黑暗与幽深，
　　路漫漫兮无心睡眠，
　　路漫漫兮无心睡眠。
                             纪鋆译.

　　阴天，我走在冰冻的沼泽中
　　停下脚步，心想：打这儿往回走吧；
　　不，我要再走远点儿，这样就看到了。
　　大雪把我困住，就一只脚
　　不时还能挪动。那些细高细高的树
　　将视野全划成了直上直下的线条
　　以致没有什么能标明我是在哪儿
　　说不准究竟我是在这儿
　　还是在别处：反正离家很远就是了。
　　一只小鸟在我面前飞。当它
　　飞落时总小心地跟我隔着一棵树
　　什么也不说，不告诉我它是谁
　　而我却傻傻地想着它在想什么。
　　它以为，我走在它后头是为了根儿毛吧——
　　它尾巴上白色的那根；好像一个
　　把什么东西都说成是自己的人。
　　其实，它只要飞到外面就全明白了。
　　然后是一垛柴，于是我就
　　把它给忘了，就让它那小小的恐惧
　　随它走吧，走那条我要走的路
　　我都没有对它说一声晚安。
　　为了获得最后的立足地，它绕到后头。
　　那是一堆枫木， 已经劈好、剁好
　　很整齐地堆着， 四乘四乘八。
　　像这样的柴垛，我没看到第二个。
　　在它周围的雪地上 ，没有任何奔跑过的痕迹。
　　这垛柴，想必不是今年砍的
　　更不用说去年、前年。
　　柴已经变成灰色 ，皮也都剥落了
　　整个柴垛稍微有些下陷 。铁丝
　　一圈一圈牢牢扎着，像是个打好的包裹。
　　柴垛的一头，是还在生长的小树
　　支撑着，另一头是斜桩和竖桩
　　几乎快要倒了。 我只是想 ：
　　一定是谁要干别的事情， 才把自己
　　忙活好些天的东西给忘了。
　　费那么大劲儿砍下，没丢进炉子里烧火
　　却远远地留在这儿 ，让它慢慢地腐烂
　　无烟地燃烧，温暖这冰冻的沼泽
　　或许这样更好点。
                    （徐淳刚译）.

熟悉黑夜


我早就已经熟悉这种黑夜。
我冒雨出去——又冒雨归来，
我已经越出街灯照亮的边界。

我看到这城里最惨的小巷。
我经过敲钟的守夜人身边，
我低垂下眼睛，不愿多讲。

我站定，我的脚步再听不见，
打另一条街翻过屋顶传来
远处一声被人打断的叫喊，

但那不是叫我回去，也不是再见，
在更远处，在远离人间的高处．
有一樽发光的钟悬在天边。

它宣称时间既不错误又不正确，
但我早就已经熟悉这种黑夜。

（赵毅衡译）

[ 本帖最后由 ououmama 于 2011-12-17 12:23 编辑 ].

挺直、黑黑的树排列成行，只见
　　白桦树却弯下身子，向左，也向右，
　　我总以为有个孩子把白样“荡”弯了
　　可是“荡”一下不会叫它们一躬到底
　　再也起不来。这可是冰干的事。
　　下过一场冬雨，第二天，太阳出来，
　　你准会看到白桦上结满了冰。
　　一阵风吹起，树枝就咯喇喇响，
　　闪射出五彩缤纷，原来这一颤动，
　　冰块坼裂成瓷瓶上的无数细纹。
　　阳光的温暖接着使那水晶的硬壳
　　从树枝上崩落，一齐倾泻在雪地上——
　　这么一大堆碎玻璃尽够你打扫，
　　你还以为是天顶的华盖塌了下来。
　　压不起那么些重量的树枝，硬是给
　　按下去，直到贴近那贴地的枯草，
　　但并没折断；虽然压得这么低、这么久
　　那枝条再也抬不起头来。几年后
　　你会在森林里看到那些白桦树
　　弯曲着树身，树叶在地面上拖扫，
　　好像趴在地上的女孩子把一头长发
　　兜过头去．好让太阳把头发晒干。
　　方才我说到了哪里？是那雨后的冰柱
　　岔开了我的话头——我原是想说：
　　我宁可以为是个放牛的农家孩子
　　来回走过的时候把白桦弄弯了。
　　这孩子．离城太远，没人教棒球，
　　他只能自个儿想出玩意儿来玩，
　　自个儿跟自个儿玩，不管夏天冬天，
　　他一株一株地征服他父亲的树，
　　一次又一次地把它们骑在胯下，
　　直到把树的倔强劲儿完全制服：
　　一株又一株都垂头丧气地低下来——
　　直到他再没有用武之地。他学会了
　　所有的花招：不立刻腾身跳出去，
　　免得一下子把树干扳到了地面。
　　他始终稳住身子，不摇不晃地，
　　直到那高高的顶枝上一一小心翼翼地
　　往上爬，那全神贯注的样儿．就像
　　把一杯水倒满，满到了杯口，
　　甚至满过了边缘。然后．纵身一跳，
　　他两脚先伸出去，在空中乱踢乱舞，
　　于是飕的一声，降落到地面。
　　当年，我自己也是“荡桦树”的能手，
　　现在还梦想着再去荡一回桦树，
　　那是每逢我厌倦于操心世事，
　　而人生太像一片没有小径的森林，
　　在里面摸索，一头撞在蛛网上，
　　只感到验上又热辣、又痒痒；
　　忽然，一根嫩枝迎面打来，
　　那一只给打中了的眼睛疼得直掉泪。
　　我真想暂时离开人世一会儿，
　　然后再回来，重新干它一番。可是，
　　别来个命运之神，故意曲解我，
　　只成全我愿望的一半，把我卷了走，
　　一去不返。你要爱，就扔不开人世。
　　我想不出还有哪儿是更好的去处。
　　我真想去爬白桦树，沿着雪白的树干
　　爬上乌黑的树枝，爬向那天心，
　　直到树身再支撑不住，树梢碰着地，
　　把我放下来。去去又回来，那该有多好
　　比“荡桦树”更没有意思的事．可有的是。
方平 译.

长梯穿过树顶，竖起两个尖端
　　刺向沉静的天穹。
　　梯子脚下，有一只木桶，
　　我还没给装满，也许
　　还有两三个苹果留在枝头
　　我还没摘下。不过这会儿，
　　我算是把摘苹果这活干完了。
　　夜晚在散发着冬眠的气息
　　——那扑鼻的苹果香；
　　我是在打磕睡啦。
　　我揉揉眼睛，
　　却揉不掉眼前的奇怪——
　　这怪景像来自今天早晨，
　　我从饮水槽里揭起一层冰——
　　像一块窗玻璃，隔窗望向
　　一个草枯霜重的世界。
　　冰溶了，我由它掉下．碎掉。
　　可是它还没落地，我早就
　　膘膘肪脆，快掉进了睡乡。
　　我还说得出，我的梦
　　会是怎么样一个形状。
　　膨胀得好大的苹果，忽隐忽现，
　　一头是梗枝，一头是花儿，
　　红褐色的斑点，全看得请。
　　好酸疼哪．我的脚底板．
　　可还得使劲吃住梯子档的分量，
　　我感到那梯子
　　随着弯倒的树枝，在摇晃。
　　耳边只听得不断的隆隆声——
　　一桶又一桶苹果往地窖里送。
　　摘这么些苹果，
　　尽够我受了；我本是盼望
　　来个大丰收，可这会儿已累坏了，
　　有千千万万的苹果你得去碰，
　　得轻轻地去拿，轻轻地去放．
　　不能往地上掉。只要一掉地，
　　即使没碰伤，也没叫草梗扎破，
　　只好全都堆在一边，去做苹果酒，
　　算是不值一钱。
　　你看吧，打扰我睡一觉的是什么，
　　且不提这算不算睡一觉。
　　如果土拨鼠没有走开，
　　听我讲睡梦怎样来到我身边，
　　那它就可以说，
　　这跟它的冬眠倒有些像，
　　或者说，这不过是人类的冬眠。
方平 译.

有一点什么，它大概是不喜欢墙，
　　它使得墙脚下的冻地涨得隆起，
　　大白天的把墙头石块弄得纷纷落：
　　使得墙裂了缝，二人并肩都走得过。
　　士绅们行猎时又是另一番糟蹋：
　　他们要掀开每块石头上的石头，
　　我总是跟在他们后面去修补，
　　但是他们要把兔子从隐处赶出来，
　　讨好那群汪汪叫的狗。我说的墙缝
　　是怎么生的，谁也没看见，谁也没听见
　　但是到了春季补墙时，就看见在那里。
　　我通知了住在山那边的邻居；
　　有一天我们约会好，巡视地界一番，
　　在我们两家之间再把墙重新砌起。
　　我们走的时候，中间隔着一垛墙。
　　我们走的时候，中间隔着一垛培。
　　落在各边的石头，由各自去料理。
　　有些是长块的，有些几乎圆得像球．
　　需要一点魔术才能把它们放稳当：
　　“老实呆在那里，等我们转过身再落下！”
　　我们搬弄石头．把手指都磨粗了。
　　啊！这不过又是一种户外游戏，
　　一个人站在一边。此外没有多少用处：
　　在墙那地方，我们根本不需要墙：
　　他那边全是松树，我这边是苹果园。
　　我的苹果树永远也不会踱过去
　　吃掉他松树下的松球，我对他说。
　　他只是说：“好篱笆造出好邻家。”
　　春天在我心里作祟，我在悬想
　　能不能把一个念头注入他的脑里：
　　“为什么好篱笆造出好邻家？是否指着
　　有牛的人家？可是我们此地又没有牛。
　　我在造墙之前．先要弄个清楚，
　　圈进来的是什么，圈出去的是什么，
　　并且我可能开罪的是些什么人家，
　　有一点什么，它不喜欢墙，
　　它要推倒它。”我可以对他说这是“鬼”。
　　但严格说也不是鬼．我想这事还是
　　由他自己决定吧。我看见他在那里
　　搬一块石头，两手紧抓着石头的上端，
　　像一个旧石器时代的武装的野蛮人。
　　我觉得他是在黑暗中摸索，
　　这黑暗不仅是来自深林与树荫。
　　他不肯探究他父亲传给他的格言
　　他想到这句格言，便如此的喜欢，
　　于是再说一遍，“好篱笆造出好邻家”。
梁实秋译.

　　场院里的电锯时而咆哮时而低吟，
　　溅起锯末并吐出适合炉膛的木条，
　　微风拂过时木条散发出阵阵清香。
　　人们从场院里抬眼就可以看见
　　有五道平行的山脉一重叠一重
　　在夕阳下伸向远方的佛蒙特州。
　　电锯咆哮低吟，电锯低吟咆哮，
　　当它或是空转、或是负荷之时。
　　一切平平安安，一天活就要干完。
　　他们要早点说一天活结束就好了，
　　给那孩子半小时空闲让他高兴，
　　一个孩子会非常看重半小时空闲。
　　那孩子的姐姐系着围裙站在一旁
　　告诉他们晚餐好了。此时那电锯，
　　好像是要证明它懂得什么是晚餐，
　　突然跳向孩子的手——似乎是跳向——
　　但想必是他伸出了手。可不管怎样，
　　电锯和手没避免相遇。那只手哟!
　　那男孩的第一声惨叫是一声惨笑，
　　他猛地转身朝他们举起那只手，
　　像是在呼救，但又像是要阻止生命
　　从那只手溢出。这时他看清了——
　　因为他已经是大孩子，已经懂事，
　　虽说有孩子的心，但干的大人的活——
　　他看见血肉模糊。“别让他砍我的手——
　　姐姐，医生来了别让他砍掉我的手!”
　　好吧。可那只手已经与胳膊分离。
　　医生来了，用麻醉药使他入睡。
　　他躺在那儿鼓起双唇拼命喘息。
　　后来——听他脉搏的人猛然一惊。
　　谁都不相信。他们又听他的心跳。
　　微弱，更弱，消失——到此为止。
　　不再有指望了。于是他们都转身
　　去忙各自的事，因为他们不是死者。.

　　黄色的树林里分出两条路，
　　可惜我不能同时去涉足，
　　我在那路口久久伫立，
　　我向着一条路极目望去，
　　直到它消失在丛林深处。
　　但我却选了另外一条路，
　　它荒草萋萋，十分幽寂，
　　显得更诱人，更美丽；
　　虽然在这条小路上，
　　很少留下旅人的足迹。
　　那天清晨落叶满地，
　　两条路都未经脚印污染。
　　啊，留下一条路等改日再见！
　　但我知道路径延绵无尽头，
　　恐怕我难以再回返。
　　也许多少年后在某个地方，
　　我将轻声叹息将往事回顾：
　　一片树林里分出两条路——
　　而我选择了人迹更少的一条，
　　从此决定了我一生的道路。
（顾子欣译）.

离开现在我们难以对付的世界，
返回到去掉繁文缛节的纯朴年代，
像墓园中饱受日晒雨淋的石像
颓败、暴裂、折断了的年代，
在一座不再是城镇的城镇里
在一座不再是农场的农场上
有一间不再是房屋的房屋。
通往那里的小路蜿蜒曲折，
向导也难以指示你走出迷阵，
老城似乎本是一个采石工场——
很早就放弃了掩盖土地的愿望，
露出了巨石的膝头。
有一本书，记载着它的故事：
除大石上马车铁轮留下的道道辙痕，
突兀的岩石上条条印纹伸向四面八方，
表明是巨大的冰川留下的杰作，
冰川把双脚蹬在北极上。
你不必介意他的某种寒意，
至今还出没于黑豹山麓的这边；
你也不必介意来自四十个窟窿的监视，
像四十只小木桶张开的眼睛，
不必介意这一连串挫折与考验。
至于说，树林的一阵骚动，响起
一阵沙沙声，急匆匆地传给叶子，
这阵骚动只是出于莽撞与无知。
就在十多年前，这片树林曾在何方？
它们今天却过多地考虑
把几棵盎然生气的老苹果树遮蔽。
请你亲手谱一曲动听的歌儿吧，
歌唱这曾是某人下班回家的小路，
他或许刚好徒手走在你的前面，
或者推着一辆吱吱作响的载粮小车。
探险历程的终点，即是行动和知识的起点，
两种乡村文化曾在那里
交汇，如今全不见了踪影。
如果你现在陷入迷津，找不到自我，
请你紧紧拉住身后的梯级小路，
高举“关”的标牌，拒绝世人除了我。
于是，你就会舒适怡然．安闲自在。
如今剩下的唯一的地盘，只有一小块。
早先，这里是孩子们搭起的小屋，
玩具小房里堆着的玩具
不过是松树下摔碎的瓷盘。
叹息吧，这些小玩意儿竟使他们快乐！
后来，这房屋不再是一间房屋，
只剩下一个长满紫丁香的窟窿，
在慢慢地合拢，像面团上一个小洞。
这不是玩具小房，而是一间真正的房子。
你的目的和命运的小溪
正是这间房屋的水池，
它像凛冽的清泉刚刚离开泉眼，
太高太远，难能流向远方。
（我知道，山谷下奔腾的溪水
会在荆枝上留下串串水珠。）
我还保存着一只坏了的高脚酒杯，
藏在水边一颗老树的树跟下面，
像受了符咒的圣杯，邪恶的人找不到，
像圣马可所说，他们因此也不能得救。
（我是从孩子们的小屋里偷来的酒杯）
这儿就是你的溪水，你滋润的水泽，
喝吧，你会超度混乱，重获新生。

（李力译）.

在黄昏，一个陌生人来到门前，
　嘴里叫着漂亮的新郎。
他手里抓住一根绿色班驳的拐杖
　小心翼翼，那是他全部的负担。
他更多地用眼神而不是用嘴唇
　请求一个躲避黑夜的庇护所，
当他转身，看着远处的道路
　那里没有一扇亮灯的窗户。

新郎出现在门廊上
　“让我们仰望夜空，
并且想一想这个夜晚是什么，
　陌生人，你和我。”
忍冬树的落叶铺满了院子，
　忍冬的果实暗蓝，
那是秋天，可是冬天已经来到风中；
　“陌生人，我多么希望我能知道。”

门内，是薄暮中孤独的新娘
　她弯身向着敞开的炉火，
她的脸被燃烧的煤映得通红
　更因为她想到内心里的愿望。
新郎注视着疲惫的道路，
　却又看见里面的新娘，
多么希望她的心盛在一盆金子中
　并且被银色的别针别住。

新郎想着是否应该
　给予一片施舍的面包，一个钱包
或者一个真诚的祈祷，为上帝的
　贫穷，也为了一个咒语的富有；

可是一个男人是不是应该被要求
　损害两人之间的爱
通过把悲哀隐藏在新婚的房间里，
　新郎多么希望他能够知道。

薛舟 译.

当我沿路穿过收获的田野，
　那些被收割后没了头颅的庄稼，
平坦地躺着，好象露水打湿了茅草屋顶，
　几乎遮没花园里的小径。

当我来到花园中的空地，
　肃穆的鸟的呼呼声
从枯草的混乱之上传来
　要比任何话语都悲伤。

在墙的一边，一棵树赤裸地站立，
　只有一片逗留的叶子仍然保持着褐色，
我不怀疑它受到我的思索的打扰，
　轻轻地飘落，伴随着簌簌的声音。

在不远的地方，我停了下来
　拣一片最后的紫苑花
把它褪色的蓝
　再一次带到你的面前。

薛舟 译.

在我们喧嚣的雪地之上
　他们聚集成无限，
刺骨的寒风在吹
　他们以树的形式在涌动——

仿佛给我们的命运带来敏锐，
　我们蹒跚的脚步很少落在
白色的空隙，一个休息的位置
　在拂晓时不被看见，——

然而既没有爱也没有恨，
　那些星如同白雪一样的
女神密涅瓦大理石般雪白的眼睛
　只是没有视觉的天赋。

薛舟 译.

　爱人们，请忘记你们的爱情，
来把他们的爱罗列，
　她，窗前的一棵花，
而他是一阵冬天的微风。

当霜冻的窗帘
　在正午融化，
笼子里黄色的鸟
　和谐地在她身上悬挂。

透过窗户格，他为她做下标记，
　他只能凭借这标记
好在黑暗时再度来临，
　现在他只有一闪而过。

他是冬季里的风，
　与冰雪有关，
还有枯死的野草和孤单的鸟，
　以及他所知道的少许的爱。

可是他在窗台上留下叹息，
　他把窗棱轻轻晃动，
目睹里面的一切
　那一夜是什么人在清醒地躺着。

偶尔他也能成功地
　在飞行中赢得她的注意
通过零乱的火焰
　和窗边火炉的温暖的光芒。

可是那花却斜依向一旁
　想来是没有什么话好对他说，
当她在早晨发现那阵微风
　风已远在百里之外。

薛舟 译.

哦，喧哗的西南风，和雨水一起降临吧！
带来歌唱者，带来筑巢者；
给埋没的落花以梦想；
让安稳的雪岸蒸腾；
请在白色之下找到褐色；
但是你今夜所做的一切，
冲洗着我的窗户，请让它流动，
在积雪去后再将它融化；
融化玻璃留下木棒
像隐居者的十字架；
请闯入我狭窄的牲畜栏；
请摇动墙壁上的纸画；
翻过喋喋不休的书页；
请你驱散地板上的诗歌；
并把诗人赶出门外。

薛舟 译.

哦，请在今天给我们花丛中的欢乐；
请不要让我们思考得太远
像那些不确定的收获；让我们留在
这里，在这一年中最有生机的春天。

哦，请给我们白色果园中的欢乐，
不像白天的什么，只像夜晚的幽灵；
让我们在幸福的蜜蜂之中，幸福，
当蜂群围绕着完美的树聚集，膨胀。

让我们在狂飞乱舞的鸟中，幸福
当蜂群之上突然传来他们的声音，
如同针尖般的鸟嘴，流星挤进来，
又冲过中间空气中安静的一朵花。

因为这才是爱，而别的都不是，
爱为上面的上帝而保存，因为爱
他可以把自己尽情地神化，
可是这爱却需要我们来将它实践。.

Robert Frost - Asking For Roses
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 coldly
There 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 is
A 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 shining
And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.

[ 本帖最后由 ououmama 于 2012-5-25 13:26 编辑 ].

Robert Frost - Never Again Would Bird's Song Be The Same
He would declare and could himself believe
That the birds there in all the garden round
From having heard the daylong voice of Eve
Had added to their own an oversound,
Her tone of meaning but without the words.
Admittedly an eloquence so soft
Could only have had an influence on birds
When call or laughter carried it aloft.
Be that as may be, she was in their song.
Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed
Had now persisted in the woods so long
That probably it never would be lost.
Never again would birds' song be the same.
And to do that to birds was why she came..

Robert Frost - The Soldier
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it ploughed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,
It is because like men we look too near,
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
Our missiles always make too short an arc.
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on
Further than target ever showed or shone..

Robert Frost - Into My Own
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 th eedge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day
into 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 track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him the knew--
Only more sure of all I though was true..

Robert Frost - Ghost House
I DWELL in a lonely house I know
That 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 shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me--
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless 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..

Robert Frost - My November Guest
My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are 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 grady
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so ryly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell he so,
And they are better for her praise..

Robert Frost - Love and a Question
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 lips
For a shelter for the night,
And he turned and looked at the road afar
Without a window light.

The bridegroom came forth into the porch
With, '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 alone
Bent over the open fire,
Her face rose-red with the glowing coal
And 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 gold
And pinned with a silver pin.

The bridegroom thought it little to give
A 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 asked
To mar the love of two
By harboring woe in the bridal house,
The bridegroom wished he knew..

Robert Frost - 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..

Robert Frost - Stars
How countlessly they congregate
O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!--

As if with keeness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,--

And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those starts like somw snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight..

Robert Frost - Storm Fear
WHEN the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts with snow
The 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 mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,--
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away
And my heart owns a doubt
Whether ’tis in us to arise with day
And save ourselves unaided..

Robert Frost - Wind and Window Flower
LOVERS, forget your love,
  And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
  And he a winter breeze.

When the frosty window veil
  Was melted down at noon,
And the cagèd yellow bird
  Hung 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 within
  Who lay that night awake.

Perchance he half prevailed
  To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
  And warm stove-window light.

But the flower leaned aside
  And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
  A hundred miles away..

Robert Frost - To the Thawing Wind
COME with rain. O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do tonight,
bath my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like 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..

Robert Frost - A Prayer in Spring
OH, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orcahrd 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 bird
That 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,
To which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends he will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill..

Robert Frost - Flower-Gathering
I LEFT you in the morning,
And in the morning glow,
You walked a way beside me
To make me sad to go.
Do you know me in the gloaming,
Gaunt and dusty gray with roaming?
Are you dumb because you know me not,
Or dumb because you know?

All for me And not a question
For the faded flowers gay
That could take me from beside you
For the ages of a day?
They are yours, and be the measure
Of their worth for you to treasure,
The measure of the little while
That I've been long away..

Robert Frost - Flower-Gathering
I LEFT you in the morning,
And in the morning glow,
You walked a way beside me
To make me sad to go.
Do you know me in the gloaming,
Gaunt and dusty gray with roaming?
Are you dumb because you know me not,
Or dumb because you know?

All for me And not a question
For the faded flowers gay
That could take me from beside you
For the ages of a day?
They are yours, and be the measure
Of their worth for you to treasure,
The measure of the little while
That I've been long away..

Robert Frost - Rose Pogonias
A SATURATED meadow,
Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,
And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers, --
A temple of the hear.

There we bowed us in the burning,
As the sun's right worship is,
To pick where none could miss them
A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered,
yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color,
That tinged the atmosphere.

We raised a simple prayer
Before we left the spot,
That in the general mowing
That place might be forgot;
Or if not all so favored,
Obtain such grace of hours,
that none should mow the grass there
While so confused with flowers..

Robert Frost - Waiting
Afield at dusk

What things for dream there are when specter-like,
Moving amond tall haycocks lightly piled,
I enter alone upon the stubbled filed,
From which the laborers' voices late have died,
And in the antiphony of afterglow
And rising full moon, sit me down
Upon the full moon's side of the first haycock
And 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 nighthawks peopling heaven,
Or plunging headlong with fierce twang afar;
And on the bat's mute antics, who would seem
Dimly to have made out my secret place,
Only to lose it when he pirouettes,
On the last swallow's sweep; and on the rasp
In 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 song
I brought not here to read, it seems, but hold
And freshen in this air of withering sweetness;
But on the memor of one absent, most,
For whom these lines when they shall greet her eye..

Robert Frost - In a Vale
WHEN I was young, we dwelt in a vale
  By a misty fen that rang all night,
And thus it was the maidens pale
I knew so well, whose garments trail
  Across 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 room
Across 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 say
Of things of moment to which, they wist,
One so lonely was fain to list,
  That the stars were almost faded away

Before 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 well
  Why 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..

Robert Frost - A Dream Pang
I had withdrawn in forest, and my song
Was 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--to far in his footsteps stray-
He must seek me would he undo the wrong.'

Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all
behind low boughs the trees let down outside;
And the sweet pang it cost me not to call
And 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..

Robert Frost - A Dream Pang
I had withdrawn in forest, and my song
Was 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--to far in his footsteps stray-
He must seek me would he undo the wrong.'

Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all
behind low boughs the trees let down outside;
And the sweet pang it cost me not to call
And 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..

Robert Frost - In Neglect
They leave us so to the way we took,
As two in whom them were proved mistaken,
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,
With michievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
And try if we cannot feel forsaken..

Robert Frost - The Vantage Point
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 defined
Far 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 noon 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..

Robert Frost - Mowing
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 weak
To 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..

Robert Frost - Going for Water
The well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To 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 moon
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.

But once within the wood, we paused
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon.

Each laid on other a staying hand
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard, we knew we heard the brook.

A note as from a single place,
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade..

Robert Frost - Revelation
We make ourselves a place apart
Behind light words that tease and flout,
But oh, the agitated hear
Till someone really find us out.

'Tis pity if the case require
(Or so we say) that in the end
We speak the literal to inspire
The understanding of a friend.

But so with all, from babes that play
At hid-and-seek to God afar,
So all who hide too well away
Must speak and tell us where they are..

Robert Frost - The Trial by Existence
Even the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the sword
Wide fields of asphodel fore'er,
To find that the utmost reward
Of daring should be still to dare.

The light of heaven falls whole and white
And is not shattered into dyes,
The light forever is morning light;
The hills are verdured pasture-wise;
The angle hosts with freshness go,
And seek with laughter what to brave;--
And binding all is the hushed snow
Of the far-distant breaking wave.

And from a cliff-top is proclaimed
The gathering of the souls for birth,
The trial by existence named,
The obscuration upon earth.
And the slant spirits trooping by
In streams and cross- and counter-streams
Can but give ear to that sweet cry
For its suggestion of what dreams!

And the more loitering are turned
To view once more the sacrifice
Of those who for some good discerned
Will gladly give up paradise.
And a white shimmering concourse rolls
Toward the throne to witness there
The speeding of devoted souls
Which God makes his especial care.

And none are taken but who will,
Having first heard the life read out
That 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 press
Some spirit to stand simply forth,
Heroic in it nakedness,
Against the uttermost of earth.
The tale of earth's unhonored things
Sounds 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 strife
The bravest would have by for friend,
The memory that he chose the life;
But the pure fate to which you go
Admits no memory of choice,
Or the woe were not earthly woe
To 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 gold
And broken it, and used therefrom
The mystic link to bind and hold
Spirit to matter till death come.

'Tis of the essence of life here,
Though we choose greatly, still to lack
The lasting memory at all clear,
That life has for us on the wrack
Nothing but what we somehow chose;
Thus are we wholly stipped of pride
In the pain that has but one close,
Bearing it crushed and mystified..

Robert Frost - The Tuft of Flowers
I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before 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 by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly,
Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
Some 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 look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
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 speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.
'Men work together,' I told him from the heart,
'Whether they work together or apart.'.

Robert Frost - Pan with Us
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 fill
At 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 command
He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
That was well! and he stamped a hoof.

His heart knew peace, for none came here
To this lean feeding save once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
Or homespun children with clicking pails
Who see so little they tell no tales.

He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
A new-world song, far out of reach,
For sylvan sign that the blue jay's screech
And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
Were music enough for him, for one.

Times were changed from what they were:
Such pipes kept less of power to stir
The fruited bough of the juniper
And the fragile bluets clustered there
Than 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 earth
And raveled a flower and looked away--
Play? Play?--What should he play?.

Robert Frost - The Demiurge's Laugh
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.
i was just as the light was beginning to fail
That I suddenly head--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 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 pretense
I was something among the leaves I sought
(Though doubtful whether he stayed to see).
Thereafter I sat me against a tree..

Robert Frost - Now Close the Windows
Now close the windows and hush all the fields:
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.

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

Robert Frost - In Hardwood Groves
The same leaves over and over again!
They fall from giving shade above
To make one texture of faded brown
And fit the earth like a leather glove.

Before the leaves can mount again
To fill the trees with another shade,
They must go down past things coming up.
They must go down into the dark decayed.

They must be pierced by flowers and put
Beneath the feet of dancing flowers.
However it is in some other world
I know that this is way in ours..

Robert Frost - A Line-Storm Song
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world's torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, earily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods, come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea's return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain..

Robert Frost - October
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if the were all,
Whose elaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the all..

Robert Frost - My Butterfly
Thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too,
And the daft sun-assaulter, he
That frightened thee so oft, is fled or dead:
Saave only me
(Nor is it sad to thee!)
Save only me
There is none left to mourn thee in the fields.

The gray grass is scarce dappled with the snow;
Its two banks have not shut upon the river;
But it is long ago--
It seems forever--
Since first I saw thee glance,
WIth all thy dazzling other ones,
In airy dalliance,
Precipitate in love,
Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above,
Like a linp rose-wreath in a fairy dance.

When that was, the soft mist
Of my regret hung not on all the land,
And I was glad for thee,
And glad for me, I wist.

Thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high,
That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,
With those great careless wings,
Nor yet did I.

And there were othe rthings:
It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp:
Then fearful he had let thee win
Too far beyond him to be gathered in,
Santched thee, o'ereager, with ungentle gasp.

Ah! I remember me
How once conspiracy was rife
Against my life--
The languor of it and the dreaming fond;
Surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought,
The breeze three odors brought,
And a gem-flower waved in a wand!

Then when I was distraught
And could not speak,
Sidelong, full on my cheek,
What should that reckless zephyr fling
But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing!

I found that wing broken today!
For thou art dead, I said,
And the strang birds say.
I found it with the withered leaves
Under the eaves..