Journey 2 Being

— Robert Frost

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 keeping

To ravel them one by one

   And let them go scraping and creeping

Out over the crusted snow,

   When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,

   No longer blown hither and thither;

The last lone aster is gone;

   The flowers of the wich-hazel wither;

The heart is still aching to seek,

   But the feet question ‘Whither?’

Ah, when to the heart of man

   Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

   To yield with a grace to reason,


And bow and accept the end

   Of a love or a season?

— Robert Frost

Thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too,

And the daft sun-assaulter, he

That frighted thee so oft, is fled or dead:

Save 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 not 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 the dazzling other ones,

In airy dalliance,

Precipitate in love,

Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above,

Like a limp 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 other things:

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,

Snatched thee, o'er eager, with ungentle grasp.



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 to-day!

For thou art dead, I said,

And the strange birds say.

I found it with the withered leaves

Under the eaves.

— Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

To-morrow’s wind, if it be wild,


Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

To-morrow 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 they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—

For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

— Robert Frost

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, 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 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

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,

     It will be long ere the earliest bird:

So close the windows and not hear the wind,

     But see all wind-stirred.

— Robert Frost

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.

   It was just as the light was beginning to fail

That I suddenly heard 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 of 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 pretence

   It was something among the leaves I sought

(Though doubtful whether he stayed to see).

Thereafter I sat me against a tree.

— Robert Frost

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 a 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 ravelled a flower and looked away—
   
   Play? Play?—What should he play?