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    New Hampshire
    New Hampshire
    New Hampshire
    Ebook115 pages1 hour

    New Hampshire

    By Robert Frost

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Robert Frost’s 1923 collection of poetry “New Hampshire” earned him the first of four Pulitzer prizes in his lifetime. Written at a time when he was writing, teaching and lecturing from his home base in Franconia, New Hampshire, this collection contains some of his most famous and beloved poems, including “Fire and Ice”, “Nothing Gold Can Stay”, and “Stopping By a Woods on a Snowy Evening.”
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDreamscape Media
    Release dateJan 8, 2019
    ISBN9781974939152
    Author

    Robert Frost

    Robert Frost (1874–1963) was a poet who was much admired for his depictions of rural life in New England, command of American colloquial speech, and realistic verse portraying ordinary people in everyday situations.

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    • 4/5
      In 1923 Robert Frost published his Selected Poems in the spring followed by this collection in November. The following year he was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for it. In addition to the titular poem this collection includes the famous "Fire and Ice", a short poem with resonance from Dante and others. One of my favorites is "The Onset" that seems an appropriate poem to meditate upon as spring approaches. I think we can see a hint of Dante again in this poem with "the dark woods", and there is also the symbolism of winter coming, of snow falling, a beautiful imagery that a time will descend upon us where our lives are dull, tragic, painful or lonely. Yet in the second stanza hope appears with the recognition that "winter death has never tried the earth but it has failed:". By the end of the poem the transition from death to life is complete when one contrasts the white of "the gathered snow" at night to the living white of the birch tree and hope in family life symbolized by "a clump of houses" and the spiritual life of the church."Nothing will be left of white but here a birch,And there a clump of houses with a church."

    Book preview

    New Hampshire - Robert Frost

    New Hampshire

    I met a lady from the South who said

    (You won't believe she said it, but she said it):

    'None of my family ever worked, or had

    A thing to sell.' I don't suppose the work

    Much matters. You may work for all of me.

    I've seen the time I've had to work myself.

    The having anything to sell is what

    Is the disgrace in man or state or nation.

    I met a traveler from Arkansas

    Who boasted of his state as beautiful

    For diamonds and apples. 'Diamonds

    And apples in commercial quantities?'

    I asked him, on my guard. 'Oh, yes,' he answered,

    Off his. The time was evening in the Pullman.

    I see the porter's made your bed,' I told him.

    I met a Californian who would

    Talk California—a state so blessed,

    He said, in climate, none bad ever died there

    A natural death, and Vigilance Committees

    Had had to organize to stock the graveyards

    And vindicate the state's humanity.

    'Just the way Stefansson runs on,' I murmured,

    'About the British Arctic. That's what comes

    Of being in the market with a climate.'

    I met a poet from another state,

    A zealot full of fluid inspiration,

    Who in the name of fluid inspiration,

    But in the best style of bad salesmanship,

    Angrily tried to make me write a protest

    (In verse I think) against the Volstead Act.

    He didn't even offer me a drink

    Until I asked for one to steady him.

    This is called having an idea to sell.

    It never could have happened in New Hampshire.

    The only person really soiled with trade

    I ever stumbled on in old New Hampshire

    Was someone who had just come back ashamed

    From selling things in California.

    He'd built a noble mansard roof with balls

    On turrets, like Constantinople, deep

    In woods some ten miles from a railroad station,

    As if to put forever out of mind

    The hope of being, as we say, received.

    I found him standing at the close of day

    Inside the threshold of his open barn,

    Like a lone actor on a gloomy stage—

    And recognized him, through the iron gray

    In which his face was muffled to the eyes,

    As an old boyhood friend, and once indeed

    A drover with me on the road to Brighton.

    His farm was 'grounds,' and not a farm at all;

    His house among the local sheds and shanties

    Rose like a factor's at a trading station.

    And he was rich, and I was still a rascal.

    I couldn't keep from asking impolitely,

    Where had he been and what had he been doing?

    How did he get so? (Rich was understood.)

    In dealing in 'old rags' in San Francisco.

    Oh, it was terrible as well could be.

    We both of us turned over in our graves.

    Just specimens is all New Hampshire has,

    One each of everything as in a showcase,

    Which naturally she doesn't care to sell.

    She had one President. (Pronounce him Purse,

    And make the most of it for better or worse.

    He's your one chance to score against the state.)

    She had one Daniel Webster. He was all

    The Daniel Webster ever was or shall be.

    She had the Dartmouth' needed to produce him.

    I call her old. She has one family

    Whose claim is good to being settled here

    Before the era of colonization,

    And before that of exploration even.

    John Smith remarked them as he coasted by,

    Dangling their legs and fishing off a wharf

    At the Isles of Shoals, and satisfied himself

    They weren't Red Indians but veritable

    Pre-primitives of the white race, dawn people,

    Like those who furnished Adam's sons with wives;

    However uninnocent they may have been

    In being there so early in our history.

    They'd been there then a hundred years or more.

    Pity he didn't ask what they were up to

    At that date with a wharf already built,

    And take their name. They've since told me their name—

    Today an honored one in Nottingham.

    As for what they were up to more than fishing—

    Suppose they weren't behaving Puritanly,

    The hour bad not yet struck for being good,

    Mankind had not yet gone on the Sabbatical.

    It became an explorer of the deep

    Not to explore too deep in others' business.

    Did you but know of him, New Hampshire has

    One real reformer who would change the world

    So it would be accepted by two classes,

    Artists the minute they set up as artists,

    Before, that is, they are themselves accepted,

    And boys the minute they get out of college.

    I can't help thinking those are tests to go by.

    And she has one I don't know what to call him,

    Who comes from Philadelphia every year

    With a great flock of chickens of rare breeds

    He wants to give the educational

    Advantages of growing almost wild

    Under the watchful eye of hawk and eagle—

    Dorkings because they're spoken of by Chaucer,

    Sussex because they're spoken of by Herrick.

    She has a touch of gold. New Hampshire gold—

    You may have heard of it. I had a farm

    Offered me not long since up Berlin way

    With a mine on it that was worked for gold;

    But not gold in commercial quantities,

    Just enough gold to make the engagement rings

    And marriage rings of those who owned the farm.

    What gold more innocent could one have asked for?

    One of my children ranging after rocks

    Lately brought home from Andover or Canaan

    A specimen of beryl with a trace

    Of radium. I know with radium

    The trace would have to be the merest trace 

    To be below the threshold of commercial;

    But trust New Hampshire not to have enough

    Of radium or anything to sell.

    A specimen of everything, I said.

    She has one witch—old style. She lives in Colebrook.

    (The only other witch I ever met

    Was lately at

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