Some people are still feeling the afterglow of a commercialized holiday. I keep thinking of how sad it is, because it is fleeting. But it’s good, isn’t it? Loss is important. Grief, too.
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
This was the title of my column when I was in high school. Naturally my teacher expected me to have read Dante. Oh, I have a special circle in my mind just for you, I thought.
I mean—nobody got it. I was writing and writing and writing. I was exorcising a demon. Of my childhood? Of my writing? Weren’t they one and the same?
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 I had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
I loved this for the sound ever since I first heard it.
I can’t remember how many times I’ve stood there, before the woods of my life, before the evenings of my life. How it called to me, like a half-remembered dream.
I would have gone, too. I would have.
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 the 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.
I think I will dedicate the next few days in publishing some of my favourite works by Robert Frost. Come on, it’s October. What better way to spend it than reading his poems?
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;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question “Whither?”
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?