Robert Frost (1874-1963)
Il naquit le 26 mars 1874 à San Francisco. En 1885, à la mort de son père, sa mère s'installa avec sa famille à Lawrence dans le Massachusetts. C'est là que Frost fit ses études secondaires ; il fut ensuite étudiant à l'université Harvard, et gagna sa vie en faisant de petits métiers. Il travailla successivement dans une filature, dans une cordonnerie, puis enseigna dans une école de campagne, devint rédacteur en chef d'un journal rural puis fermier. À cette époque, il composait déjà des poèmes, sans parvenir à les publier.
En 1895, il épousa Elinor White, qu'il avait connu à l'école. En 1897, il s'inscrivit à Harvard, afin de faciliter une carrière dans l'enseignement collégial, mais quitta l'Université après deux ans sans obtenir de diplôme. Désappointé par le parcours erratique de Frost, son gran-père lui offrit une ferme dans le Derry, au New Hampshire, à la condition qu'il la garde pendant au moins dix ans. Toutefois, les revenus de la ferme n'étant pas suffisants, Frost devint également enseignant dans les écoles de la région.
En 1912, Frost vendit sa ferme, abandonna son poste d'enseignant dans le New Hampshire et partit vivre en Angleterre. Il se lia d'amitié avec de célèbres poètes tels qu'Edward Thomas et Lascelles Abercrombie, ainsi qu'avec le jeune Rupert Brooke qui n'était alors connu que dans les cercles étroits de l'aristocratie. Grâce à leur aide, Frost publia ses deux premiers recueils de poésie qui rencontrèrent immédiatement un grand succès : A Boy's Will (1913), ouvrage empreint de lyrisme, et North of Boston (1914), qui consiste en une série de monologues dramatiques. En 1915, Frost retourna aux États-Unis pour découvrir que sa renommée l'y avait précédé. Il continua dès lors à écrire des ouvrages dont le succès ne fut jamais démenti, partageant son temps entre la campagne du Vermont, le New Hampshire, l'université Harvard, celle du Michigan et d'autres établissements encore où il enseignait la littérature. Parmi ses recueils de poésie, signalons particulièrement : Mountain Interval (1916), West-Running Brook (1928), A Further Range (1936) et A Masque of Reason, (1945). Ces œuvres lui valurent d'obtenir le prix Pulitzer de poésie à quatre reprises, en 1924, 1931, 1937 et 1943. Il reçut également d'autres honneurs et, en 1961, fut choisi pour lire un de ses poèmes lors de l'investiture du président J.F. Kennedy, ce qu'aucun poète n'avait encore fait en pareille occasion. Deux ans plus tard, le 29 janvier 1963, il s'éteignit à Boston.
Il fut récipiendaire de multiple prix et récompenses honorifiques : quatre prix Pulitzer de poésie (1924, 1931, 1937, 1943), la Mark Twain Medal (1937), la Emerson-Thoreau Medal (1958), le titre de consultant en poésie pour la Bibliothèque du Congrès (1958-1959), etc.
Frost trouva toute son inspiration dans la vie et le paysage campagnards de la Nouvelle-Angleterre et sa poésie, en vers libres, utilise au mieux la densité du vocabulaire et des tournures propres au langage de cette région. Malgré le caractère apparemment ordinaire de sa thématique, Frost sut donner à sa poésie une remarquable intensité émotionnelle, passant dans un même poème du badinage humoristique à une évocation des plus tragiques. Cette œuvre laisse transparaître, en outre, son fort attachement aux valeurs traditionnelles de la société américaine. Il demeure l'un des plus grand poètes américains du XXe siècle.
Tiré de : « Frost, Robert Lee », Encyclopédie Microsoft® Encarta® 2000. © 1993-1999 Microsoft Corporation. Tous droits réservés.
Acquainted With The Night
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
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,
O luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
Lord, I have loved your sky,
Be it said against or for me,
Have loved it clear and high,
Or low and stormy.
Till I have reeled and stumbled
From looking up too much,
And fallen and been humbled
To wear a crutch.
My love for every Heaven
O'er which you, Lord, have lorded,
From number One to Seven
Should be rewarded.
It may not give me hope
That when I am translated
My scalp will in the cope
But if that seems to tend
To my undue renown,
At least it ought to send
Me up, not down.
The bear puts both arms around the tree above her
And draws it down as if it were a lover
And its choke cherries lips to kiss good-bye,
Then lets it snap back upright in the sky.
Her next step rocks a boulder on the wall
(She's making her cross-country in the fall).
Her great weight creaks the barbed-wire in its staples
As she flings over and off down through the maples,
Leaving on one wire moth a lock of hair.
Such is the uncaged progress of the bear.
The world has room to make a bear feel free ;
The universe seems cramped to you and me.
Man acts more like the poor bear in a cage
That all day fights a nervous inward rage
His mood rejecting all his mind suggests.
He paces back and forth and never rests
The me-nail click and shuffle of his feet,
The telescope at one end of his beat
And at the other end the microscope,
Two instruments of nearly equal hope,
And in conjunction giving quite a spread.
Or if he rests from scientific tread,
'Tis only to sit back and sway his head
Through ninety odd degrees of arc, it seems,
Between two metaphysical extremes.
He sits back on his fundamental butt
With lifted snout and eyes (if any) shut,
(lie almost looks religious but he's not),
And back and forth he sways from cheek to cheek,
At one extreme agreeing with one Greek
At the other agreeing with another Greek
Which may be thought, but only so to speak.
A baggy figure, equally pathetic
When sedentary and when peripatetic.
Have I not walked without an upward look
Of caution under stars that very well
Might not have missed me when they shot and fell ?
It was a risk I had to take -- and took.
The great Overdog,
That heavenly beast
With a star in one eye,
Gives a leap in the east.
He dances upright
All the way to the west,
And never once drops
On his forefeet to rest.
I'm a poor underdog,
But to-night I will bark
With the great Overdog
That romps through the dark.
Robert Frost, 1928
Choose Something Like A Star
O Star (the fairest one in sight)
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud --
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says, "I burn."
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keat's Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.
Robert Frost, 1947
As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music -- hark !
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.
To dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.
The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush's breast.
Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went --
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.
But no, I was out for stars ;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked ;
And I hadn't been.
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
The woods around it have it---it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count ;
The loneliness includes me unawares.
And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less --
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars---on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
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 know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Robert Frost, Miscellaneous Poems to 1920, 1920 (dans Harper's Magazine, December 1920)
Fireflies In The Garden
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.
Robert Frost, 1928
Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue ?
Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet) --
Though some savants make earth include the sky ;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.
Robert Frost, Miscellaneous Poems to 1920, 1920 (dans Harper's Magazine, July 1920)
The Freedom Of The Moon
I've tried the new moon tilted in the air
Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster
As you might try a jewel in your hair.
I've tried it fine with little breadth of luster,
Alone, or in one ornament combining
With one first-water star almost shining.
I put it shining anywhere I please.
By walking slowly on some evening later
I've pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,
And brought it over glossy water, greater,
And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,
The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.
Robert Frost, 1928
The Literate Farmer And The Planet Venus
A Dated Popular-Science Medley
on a Mysterious Light Recently Observed in the
Western Sky at Evening
My unexpected knocking at the door
Started chairs thundering on the kitchen floor,
Knives and forks ringing on the supper plates,
Voices conflicting like the candidates.
A mighty farmer flung the house door wide,
He and a lot of children came outside,
And there on an equality we stood.
That's the time knocking at a door did good.
'I stopped to compliment you on this star
You get the beauty of from where you are.
To see it so, the bright and only one
In sunset light, you'd think it was the sun
That hadn't sunk the way it should have sunk,
But right in heaven was slowly being shrunk
So small as to be virtually gone,
Yet there to watch the darkness coming on --
Like someone dead permitted to exist
Enough to see if he was greatly missed.
I didn't see the sun set. Did it set ?
Will anybody swear that isn't it ?
And will you give me shelter for the night ?
If not, a glass of milk will be all right.'
'Traveler, I'm glad you asked about that light.
Your mind mistrusted there was something wrong,
And naturally you couldn't go along
Without inquiring if 'twas serious.
'Twas providential you applied to us,
Who were just on the subject when you came.
There is a star that's Serious by name
And nature too, but this is not the same.
This light's been going on for several years,
Although at times we think it disappears.
You'll hear all sorts of things. You'll meet with them
Will tell you it's the star of Bethlehem
Above some more religion in a manger.
But put that down to superstition, Stranger.
What's a star doing big as a baseball ?
Between us two it's not a star at all.
It's a new patented electric light,
Put up on trial by that Jerseyite
So much is being now expected of,
To give developments the final shove
And turn us into the next specie folks
Are going to be, unless these monkey jokes
Of the last fifty years are all a libel,
And Darwin's proved mistaken, not the Bible.
I s'pose you have your notions on the vexed
Question of what we're turning into next.'
'As liberals we're willing to give place
To any demonstrably better race,
No matter what the color of its skin.
(But what a human race the white has been !)
I heard a fellow in a public lecture
On Pueblo Indians and their architecture
Declare that if such Indians inherited
The condemned world the legacy was merited.
So far as he, the speaker, was concerned
He had his ticket bought, his passage earned,
To take the Mayflower back where he belonged
Before the Indian race was further wronged.
But come, enlightened as in talk you seem,
You don't believe that that first-water gleam
Is not a star ?'
'Believe it? Why, I know it.
Its actions any cloudless night will show it.
You'll see it be allowed up just so high,
Say about halfway up the western sky,
And then get slowly, slowly pulled back down.
You might not notice if you've lived in town,
As I suspect you have. A town debars
Much notice of what's going on in stars.
The idea is no doubt to make one job
Of lighting the whole night with one big blob
Of electricity in bulk the way
The sun sets the example in the day.'
'Here come more stars to character the skies,
And they in the estimation of the wise
Are more divine than any bulb or arc,
Because their purpose is to flash and spark,
But not to take away the precious dark.
We need the interruption of the night
To ease attention off when overtight,
To break our logic in too long a flight,
And ask us if our premises are right.'
'Sick talk, sick talk, sick sentimental talk!
It doesn't do you any good to walk.
I see what you are: can't get you excited
With hopes of getting mankind unbenighted.
Some ignorance takes rank as innocence.
Have it for all of me and have it dense.
The slave will never thank his manumitter ;
Which often makes the manumitter bitter.'
'In short, you think that star a patent medicine
Put up to cure the world by Mr. Edison.'
'You said it—that's exactly what it is.
My son in Jersey says a friend of his
Knows the old man and nobody's so deep
In incandescent lamps and ending sleep.
The old man argues science cheapened speed.
A good cheap anti-dark is now the need.
Give us a good cheap twenty-four-hour day,
No part of which we'd have to waste, I say,
And who knows where we can't get! Wasting time
In sleep or slowness is the deadly crime.
He gave up sleep himself some time ago,
It puffs the face and brutalizes so.
You take the ugliness all so much dread,
Called getting out of the wrong side of bed
That is the source perhaps of human hate,
And weIl may be where wars originate.
Get rid of that and there'd be left no great
Of either murder or war in any land.
You know how cunningly mankind is planned :
We have one loving and one hating hand.
The loving's made to hold each other like,
While with the hating other hand we strike.
The blow can be no stronger than the clutch,
Or soon we'd bat each other out of touch,
And the fray wouldn't last a single round.
And still it's bad enough to badly wound,
And if our getting up to start the day
On the right side of bed would end the fray,
We'd hail the remedy. But it's been tried
And found, he says, a bed has no right side.
The trouble is, with that receipt for love,
A bed's got no right side to get out of.
We can't be trusted to the sleep we take,
And simply must evolve to stay awake.
He thinks that chairs and tables will endure,
But beds—in less than fifty years he's sure
There will be no such piece of furniture.
He's surely got it in for cots and beds.
No need for us to rack our common heads
About it, though. We haven't got the mind.
It best be left to great men of his kind
Who have no other object than our good.
There's a lot yet that isn't understood.
Ain't it a caution to us not to fix
No limits to what rose in rubbing sticks
On fire to scare away the pterodix
When man first lived in caves along the creeks ?'
'Marvelous world in nineteen-twenty-six.'
A Loose Mountain (Telescopic)
Did you stay up last night (the Magi did)
To see the star shower known as Leonid
That once a year by hand or apparatus
Is so mysteriously pelted at us ?
It is but fiery puffs of dust and pebbles,
No doubt directed at our heads as rebels
In having taken artificial light
Against the ancient sovereignty of night.
A fusillade of blanks and empty flashes,
It never reaches earth except as ashes
Of which you feel no least touch on your face
Nor find in dew the slightest cloudy trace.
Nevertheless it constitutes a hint
That the loose mountain lately seen to glint
In sunlight near us in momentous swing
Is something in a Balearic sling
The heartless and enormous Outer Black
Is still withholding in the Zodiac
But from irresolution in his back
About when best to have us in our orbit,
So we won't simply take it and absorb it.
Lost In Heaven
The clouds, the source of rain, one stormy night
Offered an opening to the source of dew ;
Which I accepted with impatient sight,
Looking for my old skymarks in the blue.
But stars were scarce in that part of the sky,
And no two were of the same constellation —-
No one was bright enough to identify ;
So 'twas with not ungrateful consternation,
Seeing myself well lost once more, I sighed,
'Where, where in Heaven am I? But don't tell me
Oh, opening clouds, by opening on me wide.
Let's let my heavenly lostness overwhelm me.'
I stole forth dimly in the dripping pause
Between two downpours to see what there was.
And a masked moon had spread down compass rays
To a cone mountain in the midnight haze,
As if the final estimate were hers,
And as it measured in her calipers,
The mountain stood exalted in its place.
So love will take between the hands a face...
An Old Man's Winter Night
ALL out of doors looked darkly in at him
Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.
What kept him from remembering what it was
That brought him to that creaking room was age.
He stood with barrels round him-at a loss.
And having scared the cellar under him
In clomping there, he scared it once again
In clomping off;-and scared the outer night,
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so like beating on a box.
A light he was to no one but himself
Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
A quiet light, and then not even that.
He consigned to the moon, such as she was,
So late-arising, to the broken moon
As better than the sun in any case
For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
His icicles along the wall to keep ;
And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.
One aged man-one man-can't fill a house,
A farm, a countryside, or if he can,
It's thus he does it of a winter night.
Robert Frost, Mountain Interval, 1920
On Looking Up By Chance At The Constellations
You'll wait a long, long time for anything much
To happen in heaven beyond the floats of cloud
And the Northern Lights that run like tingling nerves.
The sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch,
Nor strike out fire from each other nor crash out loud.
The planets seem to interfere in their curves
But nothing ever happens, no harm is done.
We may as well go patiently on with our life,
And look elsewhere than to stars and moon and sun
For the shocks and changes we need to keep us sane.
It is true the longest drought will end in rain,
The longest peace in China will end in strife.
Still it wouldn't reward the watcher to stay awake
In hopes of seeing the calm of heaven break
On his particular time and personal sight.
That calm seems certainly safe to last to-night.
On Making Certain Anything has Happened
I could be worse employed
Than as a watcher of the void
Whose part should be to tell
What star if any fell
Suppose some seed-pearl sun
Should be the only one ;
Yet still I must report
Some cluster one star short.
I should justly hesitate
To frighten church or state
By announcing a star down
From say the Cross or Crown.
To make sure what star I missed
I should have to check on my list
Every star in sight
It might take me all night.
A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.
Far star that tickles for me my sensitive plate
And fries a couple of ebon atoms white,
I don't believe I believe a thing you state.
I put no faith in the seeming facts of light.
I don't believe I believe you're the last in space,
I don't believe you're anywhere near the last,
I don't believe what makes you red in the face
Is after explosion going away so fast.
The universe may or may not be very immense.
As a matter of fact there are times when I am apt
To feel it close in tight against my sense
Like a caul in which I was born and am still wrapped.
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it ploughed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,
It is because like men we look too near,
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
Our missiles always make too short an arc.
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own ;
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on
Further than target ever showed or shone.
A Star in a Stoneboat
Never tell me that not one star of all
That slip from heaven at night and softly fall
Has been picked up with stones to build a wall.
Some laborer found one faded and stone-cold,
And saving that its weight suggested gold
And tugged it from his first too certain hold,
He noticed nothing in it to remark.
He was not used to handling stars thrown in the dark
And lifeless from an interrupted arc.
He did not recognize in that smooth coal
The one thing palpable besides the soul
To penetrate the air in which we roll.
He did not see how like a flying thing
It brooded ant eggs, and had one large wing,
One not so large for flying in a ring.
And a long Bird of Paradise's tail
(Though these when not in use to fly and trail
It drew back in its body like a snail);
Nor know that he might move it from the spot --
The harm was done : from having been star-shot
The very nature of the soil was hot
And burning to yield flowers instead of grain,
Flowers fanned and not put out by all the rain
Poured on them by his prayers prayed in vain.
He moved it roughly with an iron bar,
He loaded an old stoneboat with the star
And not, as you might think, a flying car,
Such as even poets would admit perforce
More practical than Pegasus the horse
If it could put a star back in its course.
He dragged it through the plowed ground at a pace
But faintly reminiscent of the race
Of jostling rock in interstellar space.
It went for building stone, and I, as though
Commanded in a dream, forever go
To right the wrong that this should have been so.
Yet ask where else it could have gone as well,
I do not know - I cannot stop to tell :
He might have left it lying where it fell.
From following walls I never lift my eye,
Except at night to places in the sky
Where showers of charted meteors fly.
Some may know what they seek in school and church,
And why they seek it there; for what I search
I must go measuring stone walls, perch on perch ;
Sure that though not a star of death and birth,
So not to be compared, perhaps, in worth
To such resorts of life as Mars and Earth --
Though not, I say, a star of death and sin,
It yet has poles, and only needs a spin
To show its wordly nature and begin
To chafe and shuffle in my calloused palm
And run off in strange tangents with my arm,
As fish do with the line in first alarm.
Such as it is, it promises the prize
Of the one world complete in any size
That I am like to compass, fool or wise.
The Star Splitter
`You know Orion always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
After the ground is frozen, I should have done
Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
To make fun of my way of doing things,
Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.
Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights
These forces are obliged to pay respect to ?'
So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk
Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming,
Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And spent the proceeds on a telescope
To satisfy a lifelong curiosity
About our place among the infinities.
`What do you want with one of those blame things ?'
I asked him well beforehand. `Don't you get one !'
`Don't call it blamed; there isn't anything
More blameless in the sense of being less
A weapon in our human fight,' he said.
`I'll have one if I sell my farm to buy it.'
There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground
And plowed between the rocks he couldn't move,
Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years
Trying to sell his farm and then not selling,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And bought the telescope with what it came to.
He had been heard to say by several :
`The best thing that we're put here for's to see ;
The strongest thing that's given us to see with's
A telescope. Someone in every town
Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one.
In Littleton it might as well be me.'
After such loose talk it was no surprise
When he did what he did and burned his house down.
Mean laughter went about the town that day
To let him know we weren't the least imposed on,
And he could wait -- we'd see to him tomorrow.
But the first thing next morning we reflected
If one by one we counted people out
For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long
To get so we had no one left to live with.
For to be social is to be forgiving.
Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us,
We don't cut off from coming to church suppers,
But what we miss we go to him and ask for.
He promptly gives it back, that is if still
Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of.
It wouldn't do to be too hard on Brad
About his telescope. Beyond the age
Of being given one for Christmas gift,
He had to take the best way he knew how
To find himself in one. Well, all we said was
He took a strange thing to be roguish over.
Some sympathy was wasted on the house,
A good old-timer dating back along ;
But a house isn't sentient; the house
Didn't feel anything. And if it did,
Why not regard it as a sacrifice,
And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire,
Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction ?
Out of a house and so out of a farm
At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn
To earn a living on the Concord railroad,
As under-ticket-agent at a station
Where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets,
Was setting out, up track and down, not plants
As on a farm, but planets, evening stars
That varied in their hue from red to green.
He got a good glass for six hundred dollars.
His new job gave him leisure for stargazing.
Often he bid me come and have a look
Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside,
At a star quaking in the other end.
I recollect a night of broken clouds
And underfoot snow melted down to ice,
And melting further in the wind to mud.
Bradford and I had out the telescope.
We spread our two legs as we spread its three,
Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it,
And standing at our leisure till the day broke,
Said some of the best things we ever said.
That telescope was christened the Star-Splitter,
Because it didn't do a thing but split
A star in two or three, the way you split
A globule of quicksilver in your hand
With one stroke of your finger in the middle.
It's a star-splitter if there ever was one,
And ought to do some good if splitting stars
'Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood.
We've looked and looked, but after all where are we ?
Do we know any better where we are,
And how it stands between the night tonight
And a man with a smoky lantern chimney ?
How different from the way it ever stood ?
How countlessly they congregate
O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow ! --
As if with keenness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,--
And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.
- Robert Frost (1874 - 1963) : http://www.hearts-ease.org/cgi-bin/library_index.cgi?ID=36
- Robert Frost - Poems : http://www.bartleby.com/people/Frost-Ro.html
- A Frost Bouquet - Robert Frost, His Family, and the Clifton Waller Barrett Library of American Literature : http://www.lib.virginia.edu/exhibits/frost/home.html
- The Friends of Robert Frost : http://www.frostfriends.org/
- The Robert Frost Web Page : http://www.robertfrost.org/body.html
- Robert Frost - America's Poet : http://www.ketzle.com/frost/
- George F. Bagby, Frost and the Book of Nature (1990)
- Harold Bloom (ed.), Robert Frost : Modern Critical Views (1986)
- Andrea DeFusco (ed.), Readings on Robert Frost (1999)
- Robert Faggen (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Robert Frost (2001)
- Robert F. Fleissner, Frost's Road Taken (1996)
- Philip L. Gerber (ed.), Critical Essays on Robert Frost (1982)
- Edward Connery Lathem (ed.), A Concordance to the Poetry of Robert Frost (1994)
- Jeffrey Meyers, Robert Frost : a biography (1996)
- Lea Newman, Robert Frost : The People, Places, and Stories Behind His New England Poetry (2000)
- Judith Oster, Toward Robert Frost : the reader and the poet (1991)
- Jay Parini, Robert Frost : a life (1999)
- Guy Rotella, Reading and Writing Nature : The Poetry of Robert Frost, Wallace Stevens, Marianne Moore, and Elizabeth Bishop (1991)
- James L. Potter, Robert Frost Handbook (1980)
- Mark Richardson, The Ordeal of Robert Frost : The Poet and His Poetics (1997)
- Radcliffe Squires, The major themes of Robert Frost (1963)
- Jac Tharpe (ed.), Frost : Centennial Essays (3 vols., 1974-1978)
- Lawrence Thompson, Fire and Ice : The Art and Thought of Robert Frost (1961)
- Lawrance Thompson, Robert Frost (1967-1970)
Oeuvres poétiques :
- A Boy's Will (1913)
- North of Boston (1914)
- Mountain Interval (1916)
- New Hampshire (1923)
- West-running Brook (1928)
- Selected Poems (1930)
- A Further Range (1936)
- A Witness Tree published (1942)
- A Masque of Reason (1945)
- Steeple Bush (1947)
- A Masque of Mercy (1947)
- In the Clearing (1962)
- The Collected Poems, Complete and Unabridged (1979)
- Robert Frost's Poems (1991)
- The Road Not Taken and Other Poems (1993)
- Robert Frost Reads - On Tapes (1992)
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© 2002 Mario Tessier - Tous droits réservés.
Adresse URL : http://pages.infinit.net/noxoculi/frost.html