I may say the strain of rhyming is less since I came to see words as phrase-ends to xxm countless phrases just as the syllables ly, ing, and ation are word-ends to countless words. Thought product and food product are to me Nothing compared to the producing of them I sent you once a song with the refrain: Let me be the one To do what is done My share at least lest I be empty-idle. I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover s quarrel with the world. But bid life seize the present? So science and religion really meet. The cloister and the observatory saint Take comfort in about the same complaint. We have the same convention.
A poem is the emotion of having a thought while the reader waits a little anxiously for the success of dawn. What are you going to do with such a person? To the right person it will seem lucky; since in finding out too much too soon there is danger of arrest. You know the Weekly News? Space ails us moderns: we are sick with space. I don't want 56 Anything they've not got. And off this corner in the wild, Where these are driven in and piled, One tree, by being deeply wounded, Has been impressed as Witness Tree And made commit to memory My proof of being not unbounded.
Art and religion love the somber chord. He has given out that he will de- scend into Hades, but he has confided in no one how far before he will turn back, or whether he will turn back at all, and by what jutting points of rock xx he will pick his way. But he doesn't even have the say of how long his piece will be. Did he use good words? 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. Art and religion love the somber chord. To the right person it must seem naive to distrust form as such.
We have today and I could call their name Who know exactly what is out of joint To make their verse and their excuses lame. Frost ponders whether the world will end by fire or ice. That's all you ever heard him called round here. Elated, he proposed marriage to Elinor White but she refused as she wanted to finish college first. Join the United States and join the family But not much in between unless a college. And at the summons Roland, Olivier, And every sheepish paladin and peer, Being already more than proved in fight, Sits down in school to try if he can write Like Horace in the true Horatian vein, Yet like a Christian disciplined to bend His mind to thinking always of the end.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether. Faster or slower as he chanced, Sitting or standing as he chose, According as he feared to risk His neck, or thought to spare his clothes, He never let the lantern drop. They string an instrument against the sky Wherein words whether beaten out or spoken Will run as hushed as when they were a thought. He then worked as English teacher from 1906 to 1911. There's only democratic socialism Monarchic socialism oligarchic, The last being what they seem to have in Russia. As ever when philosophers are met, No matter where they stoutly mean to get, Nor what particulars they reason from, They are philosophers, and from old habit They end up in the universal Whole As unoriginal as any rabbit.
I wasn't going to tell you and I mustn't. Her giving somehow touched the principle That all men are created free and equal. Frost not only refused to write propaganda, he satirized the very premises of New Deal programs. The world's one globe, human society Another softer globe that slightly flattened Rests on the world, and clinging slowly rolls. His worldly commitments are now three or four deep. New York five million laughs at Manchester, Manchester sixty or seventy thousand laughs At Littleton four thousand , Littleton Laughs at Franconia seven hundred , and Franconia laughs, I fear, -did laugh that night At Easton.
Shortly before dying, Robert's grandfather purchased a farm for Robert and Elinor in Derry, New Hampshire; and Robert worked the farm for nine years, while writing early in the mornings and producing many of the poems that would later become famous. No sleep If he had stayed. So science and religion really meet. I am brought guaranteed young prattle poems Made publicly in school, above suspicion Of plagiarism and help of cheating parents. Five thousand is no longer high enough. I take my incompleteness with the rest. You shan't make out That it was any way but what it was.
Having graduated, she agreed this time. There stood the purple spires with no breath of air Nor headlong bee To disturb their perfect poise the livelong day 'Neath the alder tree. I may have wept that any should have died Or missed their chance, or not have been their best, Or been their riches, fame, or love denied; On me as much as any is the jest. The ruling passion 'n man is not as Viennese as is claimed. I keep my eye on Congress, Meliboeus.
Bounds should be set To ingenuity for being so cruel In bringing change unheralded on the unready, I elect you to put the curb on it. There bright in the filth it lay Untarnished by rust and decay. Is that the way to reach the top from here? The beauty of socialism is that it will end the individual- ity that is always crying out mind your own busi- ness. Before now poetry has taken notice Of wars, and what are wars but politics Transformed from chronic to acute and bloody? 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. And to hear her quaint phrasesso removed From the world's view to-day of all those things.