Although he knows he is much older now, he still wishes he could be snatched away into the fantasy of “climbing a birch tree” even if he is 55. In this particular poem, the speaker is reminiscent of his childhood and how he used to play on the birch trees. He is a stickler for form and structure, while Whitman’s style is very flowing and rule-breaking. Thoughts: Frost is certainly the perfect foil to the first poem we discussed on this column, Walt Whitman. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. That would be good both going and coming back. Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,īut dipped its top and set me down again. I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.Īnd climb black branches up a snow-white trunk 55 May not fate willfully misunderstand me 50Īnd half grant what I wish and snatch me away Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs 45įrom a twig’s having lashed across it open. So was I once myself a swinger of birches.Īnd life is too much like a pathless wood Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, With the same pains you use to fill a cup To learn about not launching out too soonĬlear to the ground. Until he took the stiffness out of them, 30Īnd not one but hung limp, not one was leftįor him to conquer. Whose only play was what he found himself, Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, 25 I should prefer to have some boy bend them With all her matter of fact about the ice storm, 20īut I was going to say when Truth broke in Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hairīefore them over their heads to dry in the sun. Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground You may see their trunks arching in the woods So low for long, they never right themselves: They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,Īnd they seem not to break though once they are bowed 15 You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. Shattering and avalanching on the snow crust. Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells 10 Often you must have seen them 5Īs the breeze rises, and turn many-coloredĪs the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.īut swinging doesn’t bend them down to stayĪs ice storms do. When I see birches bend to left and rightĪcross the lines of straighter darker trees, Go forth, enjoy, and as you read, remember: “It is not what you look at that matters, it is what you see.” – Henry David Thoreau The second piece is written by yours truly and will be open to complete interpretation and analysis. Of course, everyone’s interpretation is different and valid, and the comment section will be open for any further discussion. I encourage you to continue posting comments on each weekly edition of this column and you just might end up in next week’s article! Each edition will include two poems, the first being a featured piece written by a famous poet that will be analyzed and interpreted according to my point of view. Last week we discussed the beautiful writings of Oscar Wilde, a poet you might have been familiar with. Welcome back to a Poem For Your Thoughts, where we talk about all things poetry.
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