Essay On The Woodpile By Robert Frost

In New Jersey they spoke about his work and of his plans, as yet unannounced, for the future.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.

In New Jersey they spoke about his work and of his plans, as yet unannounced, for the future.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.

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The practically unbroken conditions of both for several days after a snow or a blow proves that neither is much travelled.

Judge then how surpised I was the other evening as I came down one to see a man, who to my own unfamiliar eyes and in the dusk looked for all the world like myself, coming down the other, his approach to the point where our paths must intersect being so timed that unless one of us pulled up we must inevitably collide.

What held it though on one side was a tree Still growing, and on one a stake and prop, These latter about to fall.

I thought that only Someone who lived 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.

No, I will go on farther -- and we shall see." The hard snow held me, save where now and then One foot went through.

The view was all in lines Straight up and down of tall slim trees Too much alike to mark or name a place by So as to say for certain I was here Or somewhere else: I was just far from home. 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.That year the Frost family, after many years stuck on a farm in Derry, New Hampshire, had at last uprooted themselves enough to move, for a season, one hundred miles north to Plymouth, New Hampshire.There, Frost taught college students (women) for the first time in his life, and was observed to be speaking in a different, less formal, more casual way -- a way new to him.The wood was gray and the bark warping off it And the pile somewhat sunken.Clematis Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle. Yeats, "Easter 1916" (February 4, 1998) Richard Wilbur, Philip Levine, and Peter Davison give voice to one of the century's greatest poems.The poem emerged at a crossroads in his life: he was about to make "a great leap forward," as he had written to the editor Susan Hayes Ward in 1911.I felt as if I was going to meet my own image in a slanting mirror.Or say I felt as we slowly converged on the same point with the same noiseless yet laborious strides as if we were two images about to float together with the uncrossing of someone's eyes.I like a coincidence almost as well as an incongruity. It signals the crystallizing of Robert Frost's talent at Plymouth, his determination to "set forth for somewhere," his hesitant welcoming of the true bond between speaker and hearer.The voice in which his poems would take place would alter shortly: it would be the voice more of the farmer than of the teacher, "the sound of speech." And the poem he wrote next, in the same month he wrote this letter, was "The Wood-Pile," the first-written poem and cornerstone of the collection he would entitle North of Boston when it was published in London in 1914.