Monday, December 15, 2008

Birches, by Robert Frost

B and I went to visit my brother and sister-in-law in Keene, New Hampshire. As many in my blog community know, The North East got hammered by an ice storm. I always think of Robert Frost when I see birched bent.


© 2008 ShootingMyUniverse

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the line 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. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
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 sweep 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; 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. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. 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
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
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. 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.

6 comments:

NCmountainwoman said...

I've thought about all of you in New England. Glad you are all right and appreciate the beauty of the ice, devastating as it is. I love the Frost poetry.

SAPhotographs (Joan) said...

Beauitful Steve!!

Mary said...

Frost is one of my favorite poets. You have brought his poem to life with your lovely photo. Hope you and your family are staying warm. :)

A New England Life said...

Ah yes, how the birches did bend in the ice storm. My next door neighbor was so worried her's would break but apparently they have plenty of flexibility in them.

I should post a few more pictures of mine, including a birch tree photo.

Sharon

Bobbie said...

Since I live in Arizona, we don't have many ice storms! However, your beautiful picture is a great asset as I prepare a term papaer for my college literature class. I chose Robert Frost's Birches and your photograph is awesome! Thank you!

Bobbie said...

. . .whoops! Too bad we don't have spell check... The photos are wonderful anyway! (:

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