Poetry Sunday: The Tuft of Flowers by Robert Frost

Since I first became acquainted with Robert Frost's poetry in high school, I've often taken comfort in it over the years. Whenever the world seems particularly fractious, as it has recently, I turn again to many of his poems that I love. There are two of Frost's in particular that are meaningful for me - "Birches" and "The Tuft of Flowers." Today, "The Tuft of Flowers" seems especially appropriate - a reminder that we are all in this together whether we work together or apart.

The Tuft of Flowers

by Robert Frost

I went to turn the grass once after one

Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

 

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen

Before I came to view the levelled scene.

 

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;

I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

 

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,

And I must be, as he had been,—alone,

 

‘As all must be,’ I said within my heart,

‘Whether they work together or apart.’

 

But as I said it, swift there passed me by

On noiseless wing a ‘wildered butterfly,

 

Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night

Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.

 

And once I marked his flight go round and round,

As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

 

And then he flew as far as eye could see,

And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

 

I thought of questions that have no reply,

And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

 

But he turned first, and led my eye to look

At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

 

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared

Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

 

I left my place to know them by their name,

Finding them butterfly weed when I came.

 

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,

By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

 

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.

But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

 

The butterfly and I had lit upon,

Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

 

That made me hear the wakening birds around,

And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

 

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;

So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

 

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,

And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

 

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech

With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

 

‘Men work together,’ I told him from the heart,

‘Whether they work together or apart.’

*~*~*~*

January 16 -

I just noted that this was my number 4,000 post on this blog  - a milestone of sorts. Thank you for reading!

   

Poetry Sunday: The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Yes, I know I have featured this poem here before, but it is a particular favorite of mine, so you'll have to forgive me for featuring it again. It is, of course, one of Robert Frost's most famous and beloved poems. The message it imparts is familiar to anyone who has ever had to make a hard choice. In other words, everyone. Don't we all wonder what would have happened if we had chosen differently - if we had taken that other road?

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

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.

Poetry Sunday: My November Guest by Robert Frost

November is, in fact, one of my favorite months of the year, possibly because it contains my favorite holiday of the year, Thanksgiving. But also there is something about the weather of November. Summer's heat is finally gone from the Gulf Coast and on most days it is quite pleasant to be outside. I enjoy the misty moisty days of November. It is pleasant to sit on my patio and watch as new birds show up in the backyard almost every day. The birds that were "gone away" from Frost's Northeast are now our winter visitors; my "November guests," are arriving.

My November Guest

by Robert Frost

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.  

Poetry Sunday: Gathering Leaves by Robert Frost

Leaves are falling. Great heaps of them lie on the ground waiting to be removed to the compost bins. They are a rich harvest. Small animals will be glad for the heat of their decaying this winter and afterward garden beds will receive them. Nothing in Nature is wasted.

Gathering Leaves

by Robert Frost

Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.

 

I make a great noise

Of rustling all day

Like rabbit and deer

Running away.

 

But the mountains I raise

Elude my embrace,

Flowing over my arms

And into my face.

 

I may load and unload

Again and again

Till I fill the whole shed,

And what have I then?

 

Next to nothing for weight,

And since they grew duller

From contact with earth,

Next to nothing for color.

 

Next to nothing for use,

But a crop is a crop,

And who’s to say where

The harvest shall stop?