Robert Frost: Reluctance
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
Michael Simms: Blue Notes
I think of Fats Waller whose left hand leaped down the keys, showing the path for every jazz pianist who followed, including the great Art Tatum and the minor Billy Joel.
Robert Frost: The Need of Being Versed in Country Things
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.
Gary Margolis: Ending the War
one morning
in August, she can walk
away from her fury
of pines, and catch
her breath
Ed Bieber: All At Once
After weeks of waiting patiently
for the first dandelion to appear,
we opened our door on a shocking
sea of vibrant, yellow, near-stemless
lion’s teeth.
Robert Wrigley: The Consciousness of Everything
That time’s lost now, when a stone could hurt,
when a feather missed its wing,
when sky kissed clouds and grass kissed dirt
and nothing thought itself just a thing.
Robert Frost: For Once, Then, Something
Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well…
Robert Frost: Storm Fear
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…
Robert Frost: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
John F. Kennedy: The Purpose of Poetry
In a 1963 eulogy for Robert Frost, John F. Kennedy described poetry as “the means of saving power from itself.”
Peter Makuck: Grackles
But after a few minutes
they become bold and
like dark thoughts
return
Matthew Hollis: Edward Thomas, Robert Frost and the road to war
When Thomas and Frost met in London in 1913, neither had yet made his name as a poet. They became close, and each was vital to the other’s success. But then Frost wrote ‘The Road Not Taken’, which brought Thomas to an irreversible decision.
Edward Thomas: Rain
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Robert Frost: “Out, Out—”
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
