Sublime
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like the man in Robert Frost’s poem, took the less travelled path, then continued up, half running, half walking, towards the brow of the hill, thinking how Frost’s poem had been misconstrued as an argument for taking less obvious choices in life, when in fact it had simply been meant as a joke about an indecisive friend. I had read somewhere that
... See moreMiranda France • The Writing School
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
... See moreVladimir Nabokov • Pale Fire (Vintage International)
Year’s End - Richard Wilbur
Now winter downs the dying of the year,
And night is all a settlement of snow;
From the soft street the rooms of houses show
A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,
Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin
And still allows some stirring down within.
I’ve known the wind by water banks to shake
The late leaves down, which frozen wh
... See moreWe shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
T.S. Eliot • The Essential T.S. Eliot
Traveler, there is no path
By Antonio Machado
Traveler, your footprints
Are the path and nothing more;
Traveler, there is no path,
The path is made by walking.
By walking the path is made
And when you look back
You’ll see a road
Never to be trodden again.
Traveler, there is no path,
Only trails across the sea…
I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see.