A Boy's Will

ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees, So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze, Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom, But stretched away unto the edge of doom. I should not be withheld but that some day Into their vastness I should steal away, Fearless of ever finding open land, Or highway where the slow wheel ours 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 they knew-Only more sure of all I thought was true.
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Published February 20th 2006 by 1st World Library - Literary Society (first published 1913
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A Boy's Will
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gave it

I 've only ever done that with one other poet ( not naming names), and it was a delightful experience; it feels like a friendshi with someone who was writing to share themselves with only you.A Boy 's Will is the eginning of my journey with Frost.

There is a brooding melancholy that feels too self-indulgent ( I say " too " because I firmly believe that poetry is necessarily the most " self-indulgent " of literatures); it 's a self-indulgence that distracts from the narrative flow of Frost 's supernatural verses, holding the reader ( or this reader, at least) from fully embracing the experience.

gave it

Such sentences as " the ages of a day " would remain in my ind for long.Nevertheless, there 's little, if nothing at all, didactic in it.

gave it

The thought occurred that they could have been styled after Virginia Woolf – except Woolf was not known for poetry, and Frost 's writing would likely have come first anyway.Here 's a stanz that reminded me, a bit, of the modernist Wallace Stevens.

( But Stevens seldom, if ever, intrudes into his poems with an " I ".) MOWINGThere 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 inadequac 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 and of fey or elf: Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weakTo the earnest love that laid the swale in rows, Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers ( Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows –My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.But aside from the voice, and the style, there is…… the liltIn several of the poem, there is what seemed to me an Irish, or Scottish, lilt to the rhythm of the lines.The rest of the review will be poetic.

A Stranger came to the door at eve, And he spoke the bridegroom fair.He bore a green-white stick in his and, And, for all burden, care.He asked with the eyes more than the lips For a shelter for the ight, 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 ight 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 twoBy harboring woe in the bridal house, The bridegroom wished he knew.

The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz-stones lift, And the hoofprints 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 despairThan now these numberless years the elves, Although they are no less there: All song of the woods is crushed like some Wild, easily 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 south, 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 returnTo 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 sno.

Out through the fields and the woods And over the walls I have wended; I have climbed the hills of view And looked at the world, and descended; I have come by the highway home, And lo, it is ended.The leaves are all dead on the ground, Save those that the oak is keepingTo ravel them one by one And let them go scraping and creepingOut over the crusted snow, When others are sleeping.And the dead leaves lie huddled and still.

gave it

rost 's later voice is heard at times, but these songs of youth have their own merit.

gave it

Take the first poem in this books, for instance, the sonnet “ 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 the edge of doom.I should not be withheld but that some dayInto their vastness I should steal away, Fearless of ever finding open land, Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.I do not see why I should e ’ er turn back, Or those should not set forth upon my trackTo overtake me, who should miss me hereAnd long to know if still I held them dear.They would not find me changed from him they knew–Only more sure of all I thought was true.Each piece in the ook is introduced by an explanatory phrase, and “ Into My Own ” is described as a poem in which “ the youth is persuaded that he will be rather more than less himself for having forsworn the world. ” Notice that " the youth " is not confident but " is persuaded " and notice the smallness of the laim to become “ rather more than less himself. ” Such qualifications appear throughout the poem.

He is not, after all, foreswearing the world, but merely using a small reak of trees to help him imagine what it would be like if he had a big wild dark dramatic wood to hide in, and he remains uncertain of almost everything—except for the reason that on his imaginary journey, he will not change one a bit.Yes, the characteristic Frost ambiguity—that will soon make superficially simple works such as “ Mending Wall ” an inexhaustible font of rich interpretations—is here, in the first vers of Frost 's first book.I will conclude with a couple of fine lyrics, one about the dyin of winter, and one about the thaw that heralds the spring.Storm FearWhen the wind works against us in the shining, And pelts with snow The lowest chamber window on the sout, And whispers with a kin of stifled bark, The demon, 'Come out!

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 't is in us to arise with day And save ourselves unaided.To the Thawing WindCome 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, Bathe my window, make it flow, Melt it as the ice will go; Melt the glass and leave the sticksLike a hermit ’ s crucifix; Burst into my narrow stall; Swing the picture on the wall; Run the rattling pages o ’ er; Scatter poems on the floor; Turn the poet out of oor.

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