Something that hints at despair but does not wholly despair in its subject for the last two lines are crushingly beautiful; they carve themselves—or ought to—a permanent place in the language. The small bird now appears, and in a way that seems equally fortuitous and gratuitous. What held it, though, on one side was a tree Still growing, and on one a stake and prop, These latter about to fall. One flight out sideways would have undeceived him. And it was older sure than this year's cutting, Or even last year's or the year's before. In New Jersey they spoke about his work and of his plans, as yet unannounced, for the future.
The hard snow held me, save where now and thenOne foot went through. And not another like it could I see. Like Darwin, Frost moves past thinking about who made the cut wood, a creative agent of change, to the wood itself, which serves a purpose even in its death. No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it. The wood was gray and the bark warping off it And the pile somewhat sunken.
They could mean that the bird was foolish to think that the man had this particular design upon him. His fear of its loss turns back on and elucidates the speaker's recognition of his homelessness. A better way to describe the poem is suggested in a talk by A. Frost uses this conversational technique in plenty of other poems such as After Apple Picking. He attempts to figure out what the bird is thinking, believing that the bird thinks the narrator is after the feather; however, the pronouns become confusing in their meanings. It is written in blank verse. The Columbia Anthology of American Poetry.
As stated earlier, home is an abstraction lost and gained through several stage of life. It is at once, like so much of Hawthorne's work, an exploration into the wilderness and into the self, a journey at once out and in. This is all we see, except that Frost moves to reflection, concluding the poem with these lines in which the pile of wood is extended into something more: I thought that only Someone who lives 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. What kind of individual would do this? What held it though on one side was a treeStill growing, and on one a stake and prop,These latter about to fall. Instead, it begins with a felt doubt that arises out of the formless inscrutability of a new place and takes us to an affirmation of that doubt, which, now formalized, persists even after the loveliest but inevitably mutable forms of that place are fully understood. A small bird flew before me.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,Or even last year's or the year's before. We honor the legacy of Robert Frost and encourage the creation and appreciation of poems. The narrator's purposes remain obscure, though he seems ambivalent about them. What held it though on one side was a tree Still growing, and on one a stake and prop, These latter about to fall. This triggered a rebirth in the speaker character, and he felt the frozen swap was a new home to him. But the Hawthornian tensions and polarities, of which those curves are the ultimate expression, persist: between the imagined facts and the observable realities, in the references to different points in time, between the one side and the other, between what the clematis had done, what the tree is still doing, what the stake and prop are about to do. It is based on the establishment of harmonic relations, and cooperation between man and nature.
Source: The Atlantic Online via Facebook. As soon as he resolves himself to do so, a guide in the form of an animal appears and leads him onward. In the beginning of the poem The Tuft Of Flowers the narrator is feeling alone physically. But the line moves on by way of a concessive clause that turns back on the earlier statement and attaches exceptional circumstances contrary to it. The latter is the special task of him who would be poet and person.
He sees a bird in front of him flitting from tree to tree and presumes that the bird is regarding him, considering him warily, concerned with what he will do. We can see this in two ways. Clematis Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle. Only such a man alone could have forgotten the product of his own hand. The Frost Place is a permanent home and museum for poets and poety. . After his return to Plymouth, Frost wrote to Ward as follows: Two lonely crossroads that themselves cross each other I have walked several times this winter without meeting or overtaking so much as a single person on foot or on runners.
Probably not to make his last stand. The poet's eyes caught the woodpile, which made him forgetful of the small bird, and let it out of his way even without wishing goodnight to it. It expresses the kind of paranoia that goes with any feeling of being lost and of losing thereby a confident sense of self. See things like a bird lighting in a tree, and be free to make up a story about why it doesn't speak, or how jealously protective it is of the white feather in its tail? 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. 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. The bird seeks comfort by hiding behind the woodpile, likely to hide from the speaker.