I hope it’s ok to reproduce this here:
The Aim Was Song, by Robert Frost
"Before man came to blow it right
The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
In any rough place where it caught.
Man came to tell it what was wrong:
It hadn’t found the place to blow;
It blew too hard–the aim was song.
And listen–how it ought to go!
He took a little in his mouth,
And held it long enough for north
To be converted into south,
And then by measure blew it forth.
By measure. It was word and note,
The wind the wind had meant to be–
A little through the lips and throat.
The aim was song–the wind could see."
[ This Message was edited by: spittin_in_the_wind on 2003-01-18 12:42 ]
I never knew of that poem–thanks!
I visited Frost’s grave in Bennington, VT, when going up to watch the Darling Daughter graduate from college (not from Bennington but from Marlboro). I had never before been in a cemetery that had directional markers to a particular interee.
M
The way a crow shook down on me
The dust of snow from a hemlock tree
Has given my heart a change of mood
And saved some part of a day I had rued.
On 2003-01-18 15:34, mvhplank wrote:
I had never before been in a cemetery that had directional markers to a particular interee.
M
Marguerite
The one in Petersburg, Illinois has very clear directional markers (and signs once you get there) to the graves of both Ann Rutledge and Edgar Lee Masters. Which is really sort of funny. Ann Rutledge’s fame is based on a famous but mostly imaginary youthful love affair with Abraham Lincoln. Meanwhile, Masters was pretty much hated locally while he and his thinly disguised “Spoon River Anthology” subjects were still alive, but they love to cash in on him dead.
Ah, good old Robert Frost.
If it weren’t for him and Emily Dickinson, I would have certainly lost my sanity back when I was still in school.
My favorite Frost poem has always been “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.
– Robert Frost
Raindog
That’s always been my favorite also. I’m really not much of a poetry lover, but that’s always seemed to touch some inner need for me.