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Robert Frost poems

اطلاعات موضوع

Kategori Adı Peom (شعر)
Konu Başlığı Robert Frost poems
نویسنده موضوع *JujU*
تاریخ شروع
پاسخ‌ها
بازدیدها
اولین پسند ارسالی
Son Mesaj Yazan *JujU*

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

Come In


by Robert Frost






As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music -- hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.


Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.


The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush's breast.


Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went --
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.


But no, I was out for stars;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked;
And I hadn't been.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

Dust of Snow


by Robert Frost






The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree


Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

Fireflies in the Garden


by Robert Frost






Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

Ghost House


by Robert Frost






I Dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.


O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.


I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;


The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.


It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me--
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.


They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,--
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

Home Burial


by Robert Frost






He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look again. He spoke
Advancing toward her: 'What is it you see
>From up there always -- for I want to know.'
She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,
And her face changed from terrified to dull.
He said to gain time: 'What is it you see?'
Mounting until she cowered under him.
'I will find out now -- you must tell me, dear.'
She, in her place, refused him any help
With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.
She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see,
Blind creature; and a while he didn't see.
But at last he murmured, 'Oh' and again, 'Oh.'
'What is it -- what?' she said.


'Just that I see.'


'You don't,' she challenged. 'Tell me what it is.'
'The wonder is I didn't see at once.
I never noticed it from here before.
I must be wonted to it -- that's the reason.'
The little graveyard where my people are!
So small the window frames the whole of it.
Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?
,Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight
On the sidehill. We haven't to mind those.
But I understand: it is not the stones,
But the child's mound --'


'Don't, don't, don't, don't,' she cried.


She withdrew shrinking from beneath his arm
That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;
And turned on him with such a daunting look,
He said twice over before he knew himself:
'Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?'


'Not you! Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need it!
I must get out of here. I must get air.
I don't know rightly whether any man can.'
'Amy! Don't go to someone else this time.
Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs.'
He sat and fixed his chin between his fists.
'There's something I should like to ask you, dear.'


'You don't know how to ask it.'


'Help me, then.'


Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.


'My words are nearly always an offense.
I don't know how to speak of anything
So as to please you. But I might be taught
I should suppose. I can't say I see how,
A man must partly give up being a man
With women-folk. We could have some arrangement
By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off
Anything special you're a-mind to name.
Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love.
Two that don't love can't live together without them.
But two that do can't live together with them.'
She moved the latch a little. 'Don't -- don't go.
Don't carry it to someone else this time.
Tell me about it if it's something human.
Let me into your grief. I'm not so much
Unlike other folks as your standing there
Apart would make me out. Give me my chance.
I do think, though, you overdo it a little.
What was it brought you up to think it the thing
To take your mother-loss of a first child
So inconsolably- in the face of love.
You'd think his memory might be satisfied --'


'There you go sneering now!'


'I'm not, I'm not!
You make me angry. I'll come down to you.
God, what a woman! And it's come to this,
A man can't speak of his own child that's dead.'


'You can't because you don't know how.
If you had any feelings, you that dug
With your own hand--how could you?--his little grave;
I saw you from that very window there,
Making the gravel leap and leap in air,
Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly
And roll back down the mound beside the hole.
I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you.
And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs
To look again, and still your spade kept lifting.
Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice
Out in the kitchen, and I don't know why,
But I went near to see with my own eyes.
You could sit there with the stains on your shoes
Of the fresh earth from your own baby's grave
And talk about your everyday concerns.
You had stood the spade up against the wall
Outside there in the entry, for I saw it.'


'I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.
I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed.'


I can repeat the very words you were saying ,
"Three foggy mornings and one rainy day
Will rot the best birch fence a man can build."
Think of it, talk like that at such a time!
What had how long it takes a birch to rot
To do with what was in the darkened parlor?
You couldn't care! The nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.
No, from the time when one is sick to death,
One is alone, and he dies more alone.
Friends make pretense of following to the grave,
But before one is in it, their minds are turned
And making the best of their way back to life
And living people, and things they understand.
But the world's evil. I won't have grief so
If I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't'


'There, you have said it all and you feel better.
You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door.
The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up?
Amyl There's someone coming down the road!'


'You --oh, you think the talk is all. I must go-
Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you --'


'If--you -- do!' She was opening the door wider.
'Where do you mean to go? First tell me that.
I'll follow and bring you back by force. I will! --'
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

In a Disused Graveyard


by Robert Frost






The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living still,
But never anymore the dead.
The verses in it say and say:
"The ones who living come today
To read the stones and go away
Tomorrow dead will come to stay."
So sure of death the marbles rhyme,
Yet can't help marking all the time
How no one dead will seem to come.
What is it men are shrinking from?
It would be easy to be clever
And tell the stones: Men hate to die
And have stopped dying now forever.
I think they would believe the lie.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

It Bids Pretty Fair


by Robert Frost






The play seems out for an almost infinite run.
Don't mind a little thing like the actors fighting.
The only I worry about is the sun.
We'll be all right if nothing goes wrong with the lighting.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

The Vanishing Red


by Robert Frost






He is said to have been the last Red man
In Action. And the Miller is said to have laughed--
If you like to call such a sound a laugh.
But he gave no one else a laugher's license.
For he turned suddenly grave as if to say,
'Whose business,--if I take it on myself,
Whose business--but why talk round the barn?--
When it's just that I hold with getting a thing done with.'
You can't get back and see it as he saw it.
It's too long a story to go into now.
You'd have to have been there and lived it.
They you wouldn't have looked on it as just a matter
Of who began it between the two races.


Some guttural exclamation of surprise
The Red man gave in poking about the mill
Over the great big thumping shuffling millstone
Disgusted the Miller physically as coming
From one who had no right to be heard from.
'Come, John,' he said, 'you want to see the wheel-pint?'


He took him down below a cramping rafter,
And showed him, through a manhole in the floor,
The water in desperate straits like frantic fish,
Salmon and sturgeon, lashing with their tails.
The he shut down the trap door with a ring in it
That jangled even above the general noise,
And came upstairs alone--and gave that laugh,
And said something to a man with a meal-sack
That the man with the meal-sack didn't catch--then.
Oh, yes, he showed John the wheel-pit all right.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

Mowing


by Robert Frost






There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound-
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

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.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

Now Close the Windows


by Robert Frost






Now close the windows and hush all the fields:
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing in them 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.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

On Looking Up by Chance at the Constellations


by Robert Frost






You'll wait a long, long time for anything much
To happen in heaven beyond the floats of cloud
And the Northern Lights that run like tingling nerves.
The sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch,
Nor strike out fire from each other nor crash out loud.
The planets seem to interfere in their curves
But nothing ever happens, no harm is done.
We may as well go patiently on with our life,
And look elsewhere than to stars and moon and sun
For the shocks and changes we need to keep us sane.
It is true the longest drought will end in rain,
The longest peace in China will end in strife.
Still it wouldn't reward the watcher to stay awake
In hopes of seeing the calm of heaven break
On his particular time and personal sight.
That calm seems certainly safe to last to-night.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

Range-Finding


by Robert Frost






The battle rent a cobweb diamond-strung
And cut a flower beside a ground bird's nest
Before it stained a single human breast.
The stricken flower bent double and so hung.
And still the bird revisited her young.
A butterfly its fall had dispossessed
A moment sought in air his flower of rest,
Then lightly stooped to it and fluttering clung.
On the bare upland pasture there had spread
O'ernight 'twixt mullein stalks a wheel of thread
And straining cables wet with silver dew.
A sudden passing bullet shook it dry.
The indwelling spider ran to greet the fly,
But finding nothing, sullenly withdrew.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

Rose Pogonias


by Robert Frost






A saturated meadow,
Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,
And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers--
A temple of the heat.


There we bowed us in the burning,
As the sun's right worship is,
To pick where none could miss them
A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered,
Yet ever second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color
That tinged the atmosphere.


We raised a simple prayer
Before we left the spot,
That in the general mowing
That place might be forgot;
Or if not all so favored,
Obtain such grace of hours
That none should mow the grass there
While so confused with flowers.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

Stars


by Robert Frost






How countlessly they congregate
O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!--


As if with keenness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,--


And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

Storm Fear


by Robert Frost






When the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts with snow
The lowest chamber window on the east,
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,
'Come out! Come out!'--
It costs no inward struggle not to go,
Ah, no!
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,--
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away
And my heart owns a doubt
Whether 'tis in us to arise with day
And save ourselves unaided.
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

The Axe Helve


by Robert Frost






I've known ere now an interfering branch
Of alder catch my lifted axe behind me.
But that was in the woods, to hold my hand
From striking at another alder's roots,
And that was, as I say, an alder branch.
This was a man, Baptiste, who stole one day
Behind me on the snow in my own yard
Where I was working at the chopping block,
And cutting nothing not cut down already.
He caught my axe expertly on the rise,
When all my strength put forth was in his fayour,
Held it a moment where it was, to calm me,
Then took it from me -- and I let him take it.
I didn't know him well enough to know
What it was all about. There might be something
He had in mind to say to a bad neighbour
He might prefer to say to him disarmed.
But all he had to tell me in French-English
Was what he thought of- not me, but my axe;
Me only as I took my axe to heart.
It was the bad axe-helve some one had sold me --
'Made on machine,' he said, ploughing the grain
With a thick thumbnail to show how it ran
Across the handle's long .drawn serpentine,
Like the two strokes across a dollar sign.
'You give her 'one good crack, she's snap raght off.
Den where's your hax-ead flying t'rough de hair?'
Adrnltted; and yet, what was that to him?
'Come on my house and I put you one in
What's las' awhile -- good hick'ry what's grow crooked,
De second growt' I cut myself--tough, tough!'


Something to sell? That wasn't how it sounded.


'Den when you say you come? It's cost you nothing.
To-naght?'


As well to-night as any night.


Beyond an over-warmth of kitchen stove
My welcome differed from no other welcome.
Baptiste knew best why I was where I was.
So long as he would leave enough unsaid,
I shouldn't mind his being overjoyed
(If overjoyed he was) at having got me
Where I must judge if what he knew about an axe
That not everybody else knew was to count
For nothing in the measure of a neighbour.
Hard if, though cast away for life with Yankees,
A Frenchman couldn't get his human rating.


Mrs. Baptiste came in and rocked a chair
That had as many motions as the world:
One back and forward, in and out of shadow,
That got her nowhere; one more gradual,
Sideways, that would have run her on the stove
In time, had she not realized her danger
And caught herself up bodily, chair and all,
And set herself back where she ,started from.
'She ain't spick too much Henglish- dat's too bad.'
I was afraid, in brightening first on me,
Then on Baptiste, as if she understood
'What passed between us, she was only reigning.
Baptiste was anxious for her; but no more
Than for himself, so placed he couldn't hope
To keep his bargain of the morning with me
In time to keep me from suspecting him
Of really never having meant to keep it.


Needlessly soon he had his axe-helves out,
A quiverful to choose from, since he wished me
To have the best he had, or had to spare --
Not for me to ask which, when what he took
Had beauties he had to point me out at length
To ensure their not being wasted on me.
He liked to have it slender as a whipstock,
Free from the least knot, equal to the strain
Of bending like a sword across the knee.
He showed me that the lines of a good helve
Were native to the grain before the knife
Expressed them, and its curves were no false curves
Put on it from without. And there its strength lay
For the hard work. He chafed its long white body
>From end to end with his rough hand shut round it.
He tried it at the eye-hold in the axe-head.
'Hahn, hahn,' he mused, 'don't need much taking down.'
Baptiste knew how to make a short job long
For love of it, and yet not waste time either.


Do you know, what we talked about was knowledge?
Baptiste on his defence about the children
He kept from school, or did his best to keep --
Whatever school and children and our doubts
Of laid-on education had to do
With the curves of his axe-helves and his having
Used these unscrupulously to bring me
To see for once the inside of his house.
Was I desired in friendship, partly as some one
To leave it to, whether the right to hold
Such doubts of education should depend
Upon the education of those who held them.
But now he brushed the shavings from his knee
And stood the axe there on its horse's hoof,
Erect, but not without its waves, as when
The snake stood up for evil in the Garden'-
Top-heavy with a heaviness his short,
Thick hand made light of, steel-blue chin drawn down
And in a little -- a French touch in that.
Baptiste drew back and squinted at it, pleased;
'See how she's cock her head'
 

*JujU*

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Nov 6, 2013
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اعتبار :

The Code


by Robert Frost






There were three in the meadow by the brook
Gathering up windrows, piling cocks of hay,
With an eye always lifted toward the west
Where an irregular sun-bordered cloud
Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger
Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly
One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,
Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed.
The town-bred farmer failed to understand.


"What is there wrong?"


"Something you just now said."


"What did I say?"


"About our taking pains."


"To cock the hay?--because it's going to shower?
I said that more than half an hour ago.
I said it to myself as much as you."


"You didn't know. But James is one big fool.
He thought you meant to find fault with his work.
That's what the average farmer would have meant.
James would take time, of course, to chew it over
Before he acted: he's just got round to act."


"He is a fool if that's the way he takes me."


"Don't let it bother you. You've found out something.
The hand that knows his business won't be told
To do work better or faster--those two things.
I'm as particular as anyone:
Most likely I'd have served you just the same.
But I know you don't understand our ways.
You were just talking what was in your mind,
What was in all our minds, and you weren't hinting.
Tell you a story of what happened once:
I was up here in Salem at a man's
Named Sanders with a gang of four or five
Doing the haying. No one liked the boss.
He was one of the kind sports call a spider,
All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavy
From a humped body nigh as big's a biscuit.
But work! that man could work, especially
If by so doing he could get more work
Out of his hired help. I'm not denying
He was hard on himself. I couldn't find
That he kept any hours--not for himself.
Daylight and lantern-light were one to him:
I've heard him pounding in the barn all night.
But what he liked was someone to encourage.
Them that he couldn't lead he'd get behind
And drive, the way you can, you know, in mowing--
Keep at their heels and threaten to mow their legs off.
I'd seen about enough of his bulling tricks
(We call that bulling). I'd been watching him.
So when he paired off with me in the hayfield
To load the load, thinks I, Look out for trouble.
I built the load and topped it off; old Sanders
Combed it down with a rake and says, 'O. K.'
Everything went well till we reached the barn
With a big catch to empty in a bay.
You understand that meant the easy job
For the man up on top of throwing down
The hay and rolling it off wholesale,
Where on a mow it would have been slow lifting.
You wouldn't think a fellow'd need much urging
Under these circumstances, would you now?
But the old fool seizes his fork in both hands,
And looking up bewhiskered out of the pit,
Shouts like an army captain, 'Let her come!'
Thinks I, D'ye mean it? 'What was that you said?'
I asked out loud, so's there'd be no mistake,
'Did you say, Let her come?' 'Yes, let her come.'
He said it over, but he said it softer.
Never you say a thing like that to a man,
Not if he values what he is. God, I'd as soon
Murdered him as left out his middle name.
I'd built the load and knew right where to find it.
Two or three forkfuls I picked lightly round for
Like meditating, and then I just dug in
And dumped the rackful on him in ten lots.
I looked over the side once in the dust
And caught sight of him treading-water-like,
Keeping his head above. 'Damn ye,' I says,
'That gets ye!' He squeaked like a squeezed rat.
That was the last I saw or heard of him.
I cleaned the rack and drove out to cool off.
As I sat mopping hayseed from my neck,
And sort of waiting to be asked about it,
One of the boys sings out, 'Where's the old man?'
'I left him in the barn under the hay.
If ye want him, ye can go and dig him out.'
They realized from the way I swobbed my neck
More than was needed something must be up.
They headed for the barn; I stayed where I was.
They told me afterward. First they forked hay,
A lot of it, out into the barn floor.
Nothing! They listened for him. Not a rustle.
I guess they thought I'd spiked him in the temple
Before I buried him, or I couldn't have managed.
They excavated more. 'Go keep his wife
Out of the barn.' Someone looked in a window,
And curse me if he wasn't in the kitchen
Slumped way down in a chair, with both his feet
Stuck in the oven, the hottest day that summer.
He looked so clean disgusted from behind
There was no one that dared to stir him up,
Or let him know that he was being looked at.
Apparently I hadn't buried him
(I may have knocked him down); but my just trying
To bury him had hurt his dignity.
He had gone to the house so's not to meet me.
He kept away from us all afternoon.
We tended to his hay. We saw him out
After a while picking peas in his garden:
He couldn't keep away from doing something."


"Weren't you relieved to find he wasn't dead?"


"No! and yet I don't know--it's hard to say.
I went about to kill him fair enough."


"You took an awkward way. Did he discharge you?"


"Discharge me? No! He knew I did just right."
 

*JujU*

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Nov 6, 2013
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اعتبار :

The Death of the Hired Man


by Robert Frost






Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table
Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step,
She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage
To meet him in the doorway with the news
And put him on his guard. 'Silas is back.'
She pushed him outward with her through the door
And shut it after her. "Be kind," she said.
She took the market things from Warren's arms
And set them on the porch, then drew him down
To sit beside her on the wooden steps.


'When was I ever anything but kind to him?
But I'll not have the fellow back,' he said.
'I told him so last haying, didn't I?
"If he left then," I said, "that ended it."
What good is he? Who else will harbor him
At his age for the little he can do?
What help he is there's no depending on.
Off he goes always when I need him most.
'He thinks he ought to earn a little pay,
Enough at least to buy tobacco with,
won't have to beg and be beholden."
"All right," I say "I can't afford to pay
Any fixed wages, though I wish I could."
"Someone else can."
"Then someone else will have to.
I shouldn't mind his bettering himself
If that was what it was. You can be certain,
When he begins like that, there's someone at him
Trying to coax him off with pocket-money, --
In haying time, when any help is scarce.
In winter he comes back to us. I'm done.'


'Shh I not so loud: he'll hear you,' Mary said.


'I want him to: he'll have to soon or late.'


'He's worn out. He's asleep beside the stove.
When I came up from Rowe's I found him here,
Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep,
A miserable sight, and frightening, too-
You needn't smile -- I didn't recognize him-
I wasn't looking for him- and he's changed.
Wait till you see.'


'Where did you say he'd been?


'He didn't say. I dragged him to the house,
And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke.
I tried to make him talk about his travels.
Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off.'


'What did he say? Did he say anything?'


'But little.'


'Anything? Mary, confess
He said he'd come to ditch the meadow for me.'


'Warren!'


'But did he? I just want to know.'


'Of course he did. What would you have him say?
Surely you wouldn't grudge the poor old man
Some humble way to save his self-respect.
He added, if you really care to know,
He meant to dear the upper pasture, too.
That sounds like something you have heard before?
Warren, I wish you could have heard the way
He jumbled everything. I stopped to look
Two or three times -- he made me feel so queer--
To see if he was talking in his sleep.
He ran on Harold Wilson -- you remember -
The boy you had in haying four years since.
He's finished school, and teaching in his college.
Silas declares you'll have to get him back.
He says they two will make a team for work:
Between them they will lay this farm as smooth!
The way he mixed that in with other things.
He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daft
On education -- you know how they fought
All through July under the blazing sun,
Silas up on the cart to build the load,
Harold along beside to pitch it on.'


'Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot.'


'Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream.
You wouldn't think they would. How some things linger!
Harold's young college boy's assurance piqued him.
After so many years he still keeps finding
Good arguments he sees he might have used.
I sympathize. I know just how it feels
To think of the right thing to say too late.
Harold's associated in his mind with Latin.
He asked me what I thought of Harold's saying
He studied Latin like the violin
Because he liked it -- that an argument!
He said he couldn't make the boy believe
He could find water with a hazel prong--
Which showed how much good school had ever done
him. He wanted to go over that. 'But most of all
He thinks if he could have another chance
To teach him how to build a load of hay --'


'I know, that's Silas' one accomplishment.
He bundles every forkful in its place,
And tags and numbers it for future reference,
So he can find and easily dislodge it
In the unloading. Silas does that well.
He takes it out in bunches like big birds' nests.
You never see him standing on the hay
He's trying to lift, straining to lift himself.'


'He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd be
Some good perhaps to someone in the world.
He hates to see a boy the fool of books.
Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk,
And nothing to look backward to with pride,
And nothing to look forward to with hope,
So now and never any different.'


Part of a moon was filling down the west,
Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw
And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand
Among the harp-like morning-glory strings,
Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,
As if she played unheard the tenderness
That wrought on him beside her in the night.
'Warren,' she said, 'he has come home to die:
You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time.'


'Home,' he mocked gently.


'Yes, what else but home?
It all depends on what you mean by home.
Of course he's nothing to us, any more
then was the hound that came a stranger to us
Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.'


'Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in.'


'I should have called it
Something you somehow haven't to deserve.'


Warren leaned out and took a step or two,
Picked up a little stick, and brought it back
And broke it in his hand and tossed it by.
'Silas has better claim on' us, you think,
Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles
As the road winds would bring him to his door.
Silas has walked that far no doubt to-day.
Why didn't he go there? His brother's rich,
A somebody- director in the bank.'


'He never told us that.'


'We know it though.'


'I think his brother ought to help, of course.
I'll see to that if there is need. He ought of right
To take him in, and might be willing to--
He may be better than appearances.
But have some pity on Silas. Do you think
If he'd had any pride in claiming kin
Or anything he looked for from his brother,
He'd keep so still about him all this time?'


'I wonder what's between them.'


'I can tell you.
Silas is what he is -- we wouldn't mind him--
But just the kind that kinsfolk can't abide.
He never did a thing so very bad.
He don't know why he isn't quite as good
As anyone. He won't be made ashamed
To please his brother, worthless though he is.'


'I can't think Si ever hurt anyone.'


'No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay
And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back.
He wouldn't let me put him on the lounge.
You must go in and see what you can do.
I made the bed up for him there to-night.
You'll be surprised at him -- how much he's broken.
His working days are done; I'm sure of it.'


'I'd not be in a hurry to say that.'


'I haven't been. Go, look, see for yourself.
But, Warren, please remember how it is:
He' come to help you ditch the meadow.
He has a plan, You mustn't laugh at him.
He may not speak of it, and then he may.
I'll sit and see if that small sailing cloud
Will hit or miss the moon.'


It hit the moon.


Then there were three there, making a dim row,
The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.
Warren returned-- too soon, it seemed to her,
Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited.


'Warren?' she questioned.


'Dead,' was all he answered.
 

*JujU*

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تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
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اعتبار :

The Lockless Door


by Robert Frost






It went many years,
But at last came a knock,
And I thought of the door
With no lock to lock.


I blew out the light,
I tip-toed the floor,
And raised both hands
In prayer to the door.


But the knock came again
My window was wide;
I climbed on the sill
And descended outside.


Back over the sill
I bade a "Come in"
To whoever the knock
At the door may have been.


So at a knock
I emptied my cage
To hide in the world
And alter with age.
 
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