Sublime

Frost is the author of one of the greatest short poems in the English language, a poem that every American boy knows by heart, about the wintry woods, and the dreary dusk, and the little horsebells of gentle remonstration in the dull darkening air, and that prodigious and poignant end—two closing lines identical in every syllable, but one personal

hoarfrost

Heat is not brought by fire only. When you suddenly walk through my door, I feel warm. When you promise to come but do not I feel desolate and cold. Frost does not appear in winter only.

Frost understood that the poet’s chief job is to create the right conditions for the blossoming of The Gift. He understood that he needed a chrysalis—a quiet, contemplative life—with plenty of leisure for writing, reading, thinking, contemplating.

lie upon them like a frost, its icy bite harder and harder to ignore.

Frost’s early years were spent finding out who he was. But his later years were spent increasingly being who he was on purpose