Mountain Interval
By Robert Frost
4/5
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About this ebook
"Mr. Frost is an honest writer, writing from himself, from his own knowledge and emotion . . . he is quite consciously and definitely putting New England life into verse." —Ezra Pound
"The best poetry written in America in a long time."— William Butler Yeats
Robert Frost
Robert Frost (1874–1963) was a poet who was much admired for his depictions of rural life in New England, command of American colloquial speech, and realistic verse portraying ordinary people in everyday situations.
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Reviews for Mountain Interval
226 ratings4 reviews
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5I'm utterly indifferent to his subject matter, and his poems evoke no genuine feeling from me.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Favorites in this collection include "The Road Not Taken," "A Patch of Old Snow," and "Birches."
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Frost is one of the few great poets who can write narrative verse, including conversation, and have it work both as story and as verse. This collection is held together by a theme of the relationship between humans, each other, and the natural world. There is cruelty, often unintentional or unknowing. But there is beauty in the intersection and the conflicts that result.
"The Road Not Taken" leaves its ambiguous ending hanging there: is it celebration, regret, or is it a facile narrator missing his own point? And in "Snow" the complexities of human feelings swirl with the storm that challenges Meserve to heroism or is it foolishness, or is it love for his wife?
Frost has often been underestimated, more by his fans than by some post-modernists who seem to loathe his writing. This collection bears rereading and savoring for its depths. - Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5I'm sorry, but I just don't like Robert Frost that much. Aside from The Road Not Taken and Mending Wall, I don't care for his poetry.
Book preview
Mountain Interval - Robert Frost
Mountain Interval
by Robert Frost
©2017 Wilder Publications
Cover image © Can Stock Photo / Kotenko
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except for brief quotations for review purposes only.
ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-1877-1
Table of Contents
The Road Not Taken
Christmas Trees
An Old Man’s Winter Night
The Exposed Nest
A Patch of Old Snow
In the Home Stretch
The Telephone
Meeting and Passing
Hyla Brook
The Oven Bird
Bond and Free
Birches
Pea Brush
Putting in the Seed
A Time to Talk
The Cow in Apple Time
An Encounter
Range-Finding
The Hill Wife
The Bonfire
A Girl’s Garden
Locked Out
The Last Word of a Bluebird
Out, Out—
Brown’s Descent
The Gum-Gatherer
The Line-Gang
The Vanishing Red
Snow
The Sound of the Trees
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Christmas Trees
(A Christmas Circular Letter)
The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine,
I said, There aren’t enough to be worth while.
"I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over."
"You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let