{"id":117,"date":"2019-07-11T13:59:00","date_gmt":"2019-07-11T13:59:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/2019\/07\/11\/a-poem-for-thursday-40\/"},"modified":"2020-10-26T21:16:34","modified_gmt":"2020-10-26T21:16:34","slug":"a-poem-for-thursday-40","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/2019\/07\/11\/a-poem-for-thursday-40\/","title":{"rendered":"A Poem for a Thursday #40"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\n\n\n
<\/a><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Photo by\u00a0<\/span>Logan Fisher<\/a>\u00a0on\u00a0<\/span>Unsplash<\/a><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n

I have featured Robert Frost’s poetry before because I love so much of it. His poetry frequently brings to mind typical New England scenes and has a quietly contemplative tone.<\/p>\n

When I see birches bend to left and right<\/i>
\nAcross the lines of straighter darker trees,<\/i>
\nI like to think some boy’s been swinging them.<\/i>
\nBut swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay.<\/i>
\nIce-storms do that.\u00a0 Often you must have seen them<\/i>
\nLoaded with ice a sunny winter morning<\/i>
\nAfter a rain.\u00a0 They click upon themselves\u00a0<\/i>
\nAs the breeze rises, and turn many-colored<\/i>
\nAs the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.<\/i>
\nSoon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells<\/i>
\nShattering and avalanching on the snow-crust–<\/i>
\nSuch heaps of broken glass to seep away<\/i>
\nYou’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.<\/i>
\nThey are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,<\/i>
\nAnd they seem not to break;\u00a0 though once they are bowed<\/i>
\nSo low for long, they never right themselves:<\/i>
\nYou may see their trunks arching in the woods<\/i>
\nYears afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground<\/i>
\nLike girls on hands and knees that throw their hair<\/i>
\nBefore them over their heads to dry in the sun.<\/i>
\nBut I was going to say when Truth broke in<\/i>
\nWith all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm<\/i>
\n(Now am I free to be poetical?)<\/i>
\nI should prefer to have some boy bend them<\/i>
\nAs he went out and in to fetch the cows–<\/i>
\nSome boy too far from town to learn baseball,<\/i>
\nWhose only play was what he found himself,<\/i>
\nSummer or winter, and could play alone.<\/i>
\nOne by one he subdued his father’s trees<\/i>
\nBy riding them down over and over again<\/i>
\nUntil he took the stiffness out of them,<\/i>
\nAnd not one but hung limp, not one was left<\/i>
\nFor him to conquer.\u00a0 He learned all there was<\/i>
\nTo learn about not launching out too soon<\/i>
\nAnd so not carrying the tree away<\/i>
\nClear to the ground.\u00a0 He always kept his poise<\/i>
\nTo the top branches, climbing carefully<\/i>
\nWith the same pains you use to fill a cup<\/i>
\nUp to the brim, and even above the brim.<\/i>
\nThen he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,<\/i>
\nKicking his way down through the air to the ground.<\/i>
\nSo was I once myself a swinger of birches.<\/i>
\nAnd so I dream of going back to be.<\/i>
\nIt’s when I’m weary of considerations,<\/i>
\nAnd life is too much like a pathless wood<\/i>
\nWhere your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs<\/i>
\nBroken across it, and one eye is weeping\u00a0<\/i>
\nFrom a twig’s having lashed across it open.<\/i>
\nI’d like to get away from earth a while<\/i>
\nAnd then come back to it and begin over.<\/i>
\nMay no fate wilfully misunderstand me<\/i>
\nAnd half grant what I wish and snatch me away<\/i>
\nNot to return.\u00a0 Earth’s the right place for love:<\/i>
\nI don’t know where it’s likely to go better.<\/i>
\nI’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,<\/i>
\nAnd climb black branches up a snow-white trunk<\/i>
\nToward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,<\/i>
\nBut dipped its top and set me down again.<\/i>
\nThat would be good both going and coming back.<\/i>
\nOne could do worse than be a swinger of birches.<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\nBirches<\/i>
\nRobert Frost<\/p>\n

Here<\/a> is the poem Reese chose this week.
\n
\n<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Photo by\u00a0Logan Fisher\u00a0on\u00a0Unsplash I have featured Robert Frost’s poetry before because I love so much of it. His poetry frequently brings to mind typical New England scenes and has a quietly contemplative tone. When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy’s been swinging them. But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay. Ice-storms do that.\u00a0 Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain.\u00a0 They click upon themselves\u00a0 As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust– Such heaps of broken glass to seep away You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break;\u00a0 though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm (Now am I free to be poetical?) I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows– Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father’s trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer.\u00a0 He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground.\u00a0 He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It’s when I’m weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping\u00a0 From a twig’s having lashed across it open. I’d like to get away from earth a while And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate wilfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return.\u00a0 Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it’s likely to go better. I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. Birches Robert Frost Here is the poem Reese chose this week.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1652,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-117","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poem-for-a-thursday"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/117","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=117"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/117\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2578,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/117\/revisions\/2578"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1652"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=117"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=117"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=117"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}