Ghost House - Robert Frost

 

Ghost House 

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 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.

BIO: Robert Frost - one of America's most beloved poets - was born in San Francisco, CA in 1874 and died in Boston, MA in 1963. He was a teacher and poet who published numerous volumes of poems.

     

Fire and Ice: Robert Frost

 

 

 

Robert Frost

 

 

 

FIRE AND ICE

 

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

 

 

 

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.

 

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

 

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

 

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

 

 

 

BIO:  Robert Frost (1874-1963) was an American poet whose rural New England themes captured the hearts and minds of Americans everywhere. He received four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry and the Congressional Gold Medal during his lifetime. On July 22, 1961, he was named Vermont's Poet Laureate. He is best known for his poem, "The Road Not Taken."