It consist of four stanzas of five lines each, and each line has between eight and ten syllables, the lines in each stanza rhyme in an A-B-A-A-B pattern. Frost wrote the poem in the first person, which raises the question of whether the speaker is the poet himself or a persona, a character created for the purposes of the poem.
It was about a friend who had gone off to war, a person who, whichever road he went, would be sorry he didn't go the other. He was hard on himself that way. The first line of the first stanza sets the scene for the literal and metaphorical fork in the road that the speaker faces. Wherever the speaker's life has taken him so far, he has come to the point where, to go any farther, he needs to make a choice that takes him down one path and avoid him from taking the other.
Because the fork in the road is a metaphor for choices throughout the poem, it's called an extended metaphor. This line also gives us the setting of the poem. The speaker tells us the woods are yellow, so we can conclude that it's autumn. The metaphorical significance of this poem taking place in autumn could be that the speaker is making this choice in the fall of his life, when he's beginning to grow old.
The speaker is sorry he can't travel both roads, suggesting regret. Because of the impossibility of traveling both roads, the speaker stands there trying to choose which path he's going to take.
Because he's standing, we know that he's on foot, and not in a carriage or a car. He regrets that he cannot follow both roads, but since that is not possible, he pauses for a long while to consider his choice.
He's staring down one road, trying to see where it goes. But he can only see up to the first bend, where the undergrowth, the small plants and greenery of the woods, blocks his view. This is where we start to think about the metaphorical meanings of this poem. If our speaker is, as we suspect, at a fork in the road of his life, and not at an actual road, he could be trying to peer into his future as far as he can. This description of the road is a metaphor for the future. Just like we can only see a path in the woods for so far, we can only see the consequences of our decisions for a short while into our future.
We find out here that these woods must be pretty thick, because a road can disappear in the undergrowth. Metaphorically, the undergrowth could represent aspects of the speaker's future that are unclear. We don't know why we did it, other than that we thought we'd be just as happy with one choice as the other. Because it was grassy and wanted wear. It is only perhaps better. Then the speaker tells us why the path is better — it seems like it hasn't been walked on very much, because it's grassy and doesn't look worn.
The speaker is biased in favor of nature. Cummings by E. Great book, Selected Poems pdf is enough to raise the goose bumps alone. Add a review Your Rating: Your Comment:. Hot No Fear by S. Frost by S. Hot Conquest by S. Selected Poems, by Leonard Cohen. And it's come to this, A man can't speak of his own child that's dead. If you had any feelings, you that dug With your own hand--how could you?
I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you. And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs To look again, and still your spade kept lifting. Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice Out in the kitchen, and I don't know why, But I went near to see with my own eyes.
You could sit there with the stains on your shoes Of the fresh earth from your own baby's grave And talk about your everyday concerns. You had stood the spade up against the wall Outside there in the entry, for I saw it. I'm cursed.
God, if I don't believe I'm cursed. What had how long it takes a birch to rot To do with what was in the darkened parlor. You couldn't care! The nearest friends can go With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all. No, from the time when one is sick to death, One is alone, and he dies more alone. Friends make pretense of following to the grave, But before one is in it, their minds are turned And making the best of their way back to life And living people, and things they understand.
But the world's evil. I won't have grief so If I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't! You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door. The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up. There's someone coming down the road! I must go-- Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you--' 'If--you--do! First tell me that. I'll follow and bring you back by force.
I will! Robert Frost To Earthward Love at the lips was touch As sweet as I could bear; And once that seemed too much; I lived on air That crossed me from sweet things, The flow of—was it musk From hidden grapevine springs Downhill at dusk?
I had the swirl and ache From sprays of honeysuckle That when they're gathered shake Dew on the knuckle. I craved strong sweets, but those Seemed strong when I was young; The petal of the rose It was that stung. Now no joy but lacks salt, That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault; I crave the stain Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove. When stiff and sore and scarred I take away my hand From leaning on it hard In grass and sand, The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength To feel the earth as rough To all my length.
Christmas Trees A Christmas circular letter The city had withdrawn into itself And left at last the country to the country; When between whirls of snow not come to lie And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove A stranger to our yard, who looked the city, Yet did in country fashion in that there He sat and waited till he drew us out, A-buttoning coats, to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again To look for something it had left behind And could not do without and keep its Christmas. He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees; My woods—the young fir balsams like a place Where houses all are churches and have spires. I hadn't thought of them as Christmas trees. I doubt if I was tempted for a moment To sell them off their feet to go in cars And leave the slope behind the house all bare, Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I'd hate to have them know it if I was. Yet more I'd hate to hold my trees, except As others hold theirs or refuse for them, Beyond the time of profitable growth— The trial by market everything must come to. I dallied so much with the thought of selling. Then whether from mistaken courtesy And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said, "There aren't enough to be worth while. But don't expect I'm going to let you have them.
The latter he nodded "Yes" to, Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one, With a buyer's moderation, "That would do.
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