Jim Roth’s Website
Two Look at Two by Robert Frost
Love
and forgetting might have carried them
A little further up the mountain side
With night so near, but not much further up.
They must have halted soon in any case
With thoughts of a path back, how rough it was
With rock and washout, and unsafe in darkness;
When they were halted by a tumbled wall
With barbed-wire binding. They stood facing this,
Spending what onward impulse they still had
In one last look the way they must not go,
On up the failing path, where, if a stone
Or earthslide moved at night, it moved itself;
No footstep moved it. 'This is all,' they sighed,
Good-night to woods.' But not so; there was more.
A doe from round a spruce stood looking at them
Across the wall, as near the wall as they.
She saw them in their field, they her in hers.
The difficulty of seeing what stood still,
Like some up-ended boulder split in two,
Was in her clouded eyes; they saw no fear there.
She seemed to think that two thus they were safe.
Then, as if they were something that, though strange,
She could not trouble her mind with too long,
She sighed and passed unscared along the wall.
'This, then, is all. What more is there to ask?'
But no, not yet. A snort to bid them wait.
A buck from round the spruce stood looking at them
Across the wall as near the wall as they.
This was an antlered buck of lusty nostril,
Not the same doe come back into her place.
He viewed them quizzically with jerks of head,
As if to ask, 'Why don't you make some motion?
Or give some sign of life? Because you can't.
I doubt if you're as living as you look."
Thus till he had them almost feeling dared
To stretch a proffering hand -- and a
spell-breaking.
Then he too passed unscared along the wall.
Two had seen two, whichever side you spoke from.
'This must be all.' It was all. Still they stood,
A great wave from it going over them,
As if the earth in one unlooked-for favour
Had made them certain earth returned their love.
The Wood-Pile by Robert Frost
Out walking in the frozen
swamp one gray day,
I paused and said, 'I will
turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther—and
we shall see.'
The hard snow held me, save
where now and then
One foot went through. The
view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall
slim trees
Too much alike to mark or
name a place by
So as to say for certain I
was here
Or somewhere else: I was
just far from home.
A small bird flew before me.
He was careful
To put a tree between us
when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me
who he was
Who was so foolish as to
think what he thought.
He thought that I was after
him for a feather—
The white one in his tail;
like one who takes
Everything said as personal
to himself.
One flight out sideways
would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of
wood for which
I forgot him and let his
little fear
Carry him off the way I
might have gone,
Without so much as wishing
him good-night.
He went behind it to make
his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut
and split
And piled—and measured, four
by four by eight.
And not another like it
could I see.
No runner tracks in this
year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than
this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the
year's before.
The wood was gray and the
bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat
sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and
round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one
side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a
stake and prop,
These latter about to fall.
I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning
to fresh tasks
Could so forget his
handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labor
of his ax,
And leave it there far from
a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as
best it could
With the slow smokeless
burning of decay.