Part 1

COLLECTED POEMS OF ROBERT FROST

NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

_Fourth Printing_

Copyright 1930 by Henry Holt and Company, Inc Manufactured in the United States of America

CONTENTS

The Pasture page 1

A BOY’S WILL

Into my Own 5 Ghost House 6 My November Guest 8 Love and a Question 9 A Late Walk 11 Stars 12 Storm Fear 13 Wind and Window Flower 14 To the Thawing Wind 16 A Prayer in Spring 17 Flower-Gathering 18 Rose Pogonias 19 Waiting 20 In a Vale 21 A Dream Pang 22 In Neglect 23 The Vantage Point 24 Mowing 25 Going for Water 26 Revelation 27 The Trial by Existence 28 The Tuft of Flowers 31 Pan With Us 33 The Demiurge’s Laugh 35 Now Close the Windows 36 In Hardwood Groves 37 A Line-Storm Song 38 October 40 My Butterfly 41 Reluctance 43

NORTH OF BOSTON

Mending Wall 47 The Death of the Hired Man 49 The Mountain 56 A Hundred Collars 61 Home Burial 69 The Black Cottage 74 Blueberries 78 A Servant to Servants 82 After Apple-Picking 88 The Code 90 The Generations of Men 94 The Housekeeper 103 The Fear 112 The Self-Seeker 117 The Wood-Pile 126 Good Hours 128

MOUNTAIN INTERVAL

The Road Not Taken 131 Christmas Trees 132 An Old Man’s Winter Night 135 The Exposed Nest 136 A Patch of Old Snow 138 In the Home Stretch 139 The Telephone 147 Meeting and Passing 148 Hyla Brook 149 The Oven Bird 150 Bond and Free 151 Birches 152 Pea Brush 154 Putting in the Seed 155 A Time to Talk 156 The Cow in Apple Time 157 An Encounter 158 Range-Finding 159 The Hill Wife 160 The Bonfire 163 A Girl’s Garden 167 Locked Out 169 The Last Word of a Bluebird 170 ‘Out, Out--’ 171 Brown’s Descent 173 The Gum-Gatherer 176 The Line-Gang 178 The Vanishing Red 179 Snow 180 The Sound of the Trees 195

NEW HAMPSHIRE

New Hampshire 199 A Star in a Stone-Boat 213 The Census-Taker 216 The Star-Splitter 218 Maple 222 The Axe-Helve 228 The Grindstone 232 Paul’s Wife 235 Wild Grapes 240 Place for a Third 244 Two Witches 247 An Empty Threat 256 A Fountain, a Bottle, a Donkey’s Ears and Some Books 258 I Will Sing You One-O 264 Fragmentary Blue 267 Fire and Ice 268 In a Disused Graveyard 269 Dust of Snow 270 To E. T. 271 Nothing Gold Can Stay 272 The Runaway 273 The Aim Was Song 274 Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening 275 For Once, Then, Something 276 Blue-Butterfly Day 277 The Onset 278 To Earthward 279 Good-Bye and Keep Cold 281 Two Look at Two 282 Not to Keep 284 A Brook in the City 285 The Kitchen Chimney 286 Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter 287 A Boundless Moment 288 Evening in a Sugar Orchard 289 Gathering Leaves 290 The Valley’s Singing Day 291 Misgiving 292 A Hillside Thaw 293 Plowmen 295 On a Tree Fallen Across the Road 296 Our Singing Strength 297 The Lockless Door 299 The Need of Being Versed in Country Things 300

WEST-RUNNING BROOK

Spring Pools 303 The Freedom of the Moon 304 The Rose Family 305 Fireflies in the Garden 306 Atmosphere 307 Devotion 308 On Going Unnoticed 309 The Cocoon 310 A Passing Glimpse 311 A Peck of Gold 312 Acceptance 313 Once by the Pacific 314 Lodged 315 A Minor Bird 316 Bereft 317 Tree at My Window 318 The Peaceful Shepherd 319 The Thatch 320 A Winter Eden 322 The Flood 323 Acquainted With the Night 324 The Lovely Shall Be Choosers 325 West-running Brook 327 Sand Dunes 330 Canis Major 331 A Soldier 332 Immigrants 333 Hannibal 334 The Flower Boat 335 The Times Table 336 The Investment 337 The Last Mowing 338 The Birthplace 339 The Door in the Dark 340 Dust in the Eyes 341 Sitting by a Bush in Broad Sunlight 342 The Armful 343 What Fifty Said 344 Riders 345 On Looking Up By Chance at the Constellations 346 The Bear 347 The Egg and the Machine 349

_The Pasture_

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 sha’n’t be gone long.--You come too.

I’m going out to fetch the little calf That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young, It totters when she licks it with her tongue. I sha’n’t be gone long.--You come too.

A BOY’S WILL

_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 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 they knew-- Only more sure of all I thought was true.

_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.

_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 grey Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees, The faded earth, the heavy sky, The beauties she so truly 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 her so, And they are better for her praise.

_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.

_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.

_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 keenness 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 stars like some snow-white Minerva’s snow-white marble eyes Without the gift of sight.

_Storm Fear_

When the wind works against us in the dark, And pelts with snow The lower 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.

_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.

_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 snow-bank steam; Find the brown beneath the white; But whate’er you do to-night, Bathe 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.

_Prayer in Spring_

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day; 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 orchard 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, The which it is reserved for God above To sanctify to what far ends He will, But which it only needs that we fulfil.

_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 grey 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.

_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 heat.

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 favoured, Obtain such grace of hours, That none should mow the grass there While so confused with flowers.

_Waiting_

AFIELD AT DUSK

What things for dream there are when spectre-like, Moving among tall haycocks lightly piled, I enter alone upon the stubble field, 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 night-hawks peopling heaven, Each circling each with vague unearthly cry, 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, And seek it endlessly with purblind haste; 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 memory of one absent most, For whom these lines when they shall greet her eye.

_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.

_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--too 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.

_In Neglect_

They leave us so to the way we took, As two in whom they were proved mistaken, That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook, With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look, And _try_ if we cannot feel forsaken.

_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.

_Mowing_