Dust of Snow
by Robert Frost
The way a crowShook down on me
The dust of snowFrom a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
The theme of this anthology is based solely on the works of Robert Frost (1874-1963). Not being a connoisseur of poetry, nor music, nor the arts I decided to explore subjects that brought me closer to my childhood. Subjects that immediately came to mind center upon the seasons, those of which we rarely experience here in Colorado. Fall comes to mind almost instantaneously. Not just the explicit colors associated with fall, the bright reds, deep oranges, mystic yellows – but the smells and sounds too. The damp smells of the forest as the recently dropped leafs begin to compost. The sickly sweet odor of ripe apples ready to be picked, and the lonely sound of discarded leafs skipping down a vacant street. These are all elements that bring me back, elements that have wound themselves into the poetic verses of Robert Frost, elements that remind me of rural Vermont - the Vermont I spent my childhood in.
I hope to share my fond memories of Vermont through the poetry of Robert Frost. Through the readings I choose and photos I post I hope one to get a sense of the remoteness, naturalness. I hope that after visiting my anthology one could taste Vermont, without having tasted Vermont before. It’s like the flavor of real maple sugar syrup; once you’ve experienced it you will never forget it. I hope to provide such a taste with the works of Frost.
---Aaron Galer
23 July 2010
October by Robert Frost
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 leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the all.
The Sound of the Trees by Robert Frost
I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.
The Need of Being Versed in Country Things by Robert Frost
The house had gone to bring again
To the midnight sky a sunset glow.
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.
The barn opposed across the way,
That would have joined the house in flame
Had it been the will of the wind, was left
To bear forsaken the place's name.
No more it opened with all one end
For teams that came by the stony road
To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs
And brush the mow with the summer load.
The birds that came to it through the air
At broken windows flew out and in,
Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh
From too much dwelling on what has been.
Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,
And the aged elm, though touched with fire;
And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm;
And the fence post carried a strand of wire.
For them there was really nothing sad.
But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept,
One had to be versed in country things
Not to believe the phoebes wept.
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/robert_frost/poems
I hope to share my fond memories of Vermont through the poetry of Robert Frost. Through the readings I choose and photos I post I hope one to get a sense of the remoteness, naturalness. I hope that after visiting my anthology one could taste Vermont, without having tasted Vermont before. It’s like the flavor of real maple sugar syrup; once you’ve experienced it you will never forget it. I hope to provide such a taste with the works of Frost.
---Aaron Galer
23 July 2010
October by Robert Frost
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 leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the all.
The Sound of the Trees by Robert Frost
I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.
The Need of Being Versed in Country Things by Robert Frost
The house had gone to bring again
To the midnight sky a sunset glow.
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.
The barn opposed across the way,
That would have joined the house in flame
Had it been the will of the wind, was left
To bear forsaken the place's name.
No more it opened with all one end
For teams that came by the stony road
To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs
And brush the mow with the summer load.
The birds that came to it through the air
At broken windows flew out and in,
Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh
From too much dwelling on what has been.
Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,
And the aged elm, though touched with fire;
And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm;
And the fence post carried a strand of wire.
For them there was really nothing sad.
But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept,
One had to be versed in country things
Not to believe the phoebes wept.
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/robert_frost/poems
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