I really didn't get Robert Frost until I was older.
When I was in high school, I thought of him as the death poet, stopping by woods to think about that final nap, or as the rugged individualist, taking New England roads less traveled.
But as I grew up -- lived, moved, loved, worked, lost, made mistakes, grieved, hated, healed, and grew every year to love the shape and layering of words more dearly, I found that I also loved the roads Frost traveled.
I've been saving this one for the end of fall, for the real turn of weather that is winter upon us. Oh, I know ... winter may not arrive officially for a couple of weeks, but now that we are in the Advent season, and we saw our temperatures dive this week from deliciously mild to twenty degrees, I must reluctantly admit that my beloved autumn is gone. Of course, Frost is talking about a lot more here than reluctantly letting go of autumn rust and woodsy bonfires. He leaves me in awe, at times, with the way he can take the simplest subject and turn it into a metaphysical wallop.
by Robert Frost
Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended; ...
... Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
(Go read the whole poem here.)
The Poetry Friday round up can be found at Wild Rose Reader.