Send some poems to a friend - the love thought that counts!
Poems for the People   -  Poems by the People

Passions in Poetry1914 North of Boston
The Wood-pile
by Robert Frost

 

 Your Response Panel

Friend

Email this poem to a Friend (or yourself)

eCard

Create a Greeting Card for a Friend

Vote

Vote for this Poem (see comments below the poem)

Print

Display a Printable web page with this poem
Resources Submit an Article, Link or Note about this Poem

 

Love Poems
Sad Poems
Friendship Poems
Poems on Life
Poetry Buffet
Read the latest Passionate News and discover what's happening in the world of poetry.If you have a question, we probably have the answer in our Frequently Asked Questions section
Every Resident Poet gets their own page, listing all their published worksLearn how to sell your poetry to the magazine or book markets
Links to some of the BEST Poetry sites on the Net!Search our huge database of poems for that special word or phrase
Instant Gratification - and thousands more poems! Join our growing community.You, too, can have your poetry showcased to the world!
Full list of ALL our poetry categories
Learn to write better poetry in our Learning Center!
Browse or send a poem from the classical Masters of poetry
Mix beautiful art with our poetry, and send the results to that special someone in your life
Passions in Poetry Home > All Poems > Classic Poetry > Robert Frost > 1914 North of Boston > Good Hours Good Hours
Robert Frost
Poetry | Biography
1914 North of Boston
The Wood-pile
by Robert Frost

OUT walking in the frozen swamp one grey day
I paused and said, "I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther--and we shall see."
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went down. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather--
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled--and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was grey and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labour of his axe,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.

 

Submission Notes: None

Classic Home > Robert Frost > 1914 North of Boston >> Good Hours Good Hours
If you have written a paper about this poem or poet, you can submit it for possible publication with our other Resources.

Submit paper about 1914 North of Boston
The Wood-pile

Submit paper about Robert Frost

Passions in Poetry

Top | All Poems | About Passions in Poetry | Your Privacy | Email Us
All poetry is copyright by the individual authors.
All other material on this web site, unless otherwise noted, is
Copyright 1998 - 2017 by Ron Carnell and Passions in Poetry.