A poem begins with a lump in the throat
Robert FrostA bank is a place where they lend you an umbrella in fair weather and ask for it back when it begins to rain.
Robert FrostSo was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
Stichwörter: life innocence childhood fun
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I
tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make
good neighbors.
You, of course, are a rose--
But were always a rose.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I never dared be radical when young For fear it would make me conservative when old
Robert FrostGod made a beauteous garden
With lovely flowers strown,
But one straight, narrow pathway
That was not overgrown.
And to this beauteous garden
He brought mankind to live,
And said "To you, my children,
These lovely flowers I give.
Prune ye my vines and fig trees,
With care my flowers tend,
But keep the pathway open
Your home is at the end."
God's Garden
Stichwörter: frost god gardens
He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder-broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter-love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff's talus on the other side,
And then in the far-distant water splashed,
But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush--and that was all.
The worst disease which can afflict executives in their work is not, as popularly supposed, alcoholism; it's egotism.
Robert FrostStichwörter: work ego alcoholism
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