Poetry Robert Frost Essay

Poetry Robert Frost Essay-4
“After Apple-Picking” In “After Apple-Picking,” for example, a great deal can be established about the dramatic situation, the dramatic moment, and the narrative persona.The reader knows that the narrator has been harvesting apples, perhaps in great numbers, and that he is now “done” with apple-picking.

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This elusiveness makes Frost one of the most interesting and continually intriguing American poets.

He teaches the joys of discovering what lies beneath the veil, and readers grow to appreciate how he has cleverly masked what seems so intuitively obvious.

The veils themselves are constructed of technical devices such as symbol, rhyme, stanzation, imagery, and dramatic situation, and they are rooted in language play, which Frost uses to effect sleight-of-hand tricks.

He is a magician whose devices are so artful that readers usually cannot see how he transforms one theme into another; they may be delighted with the effect, yet they cannot help wondering how they have been tricked so completely.

During his later life he earned four Pulitzer Prizes, and as the unofficial U. “poet laureate” he was a special guest at the inauguration of President John F. He died of surgical complications two years later, at the age of 88.

Poetry Robert Frost Essay

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

Whose woods these are I think I know His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another sireet, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right I have been one acquainted with the night.

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