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Tuesday in THE BLOG...WTF is blogetry? It's poetry shoved inside a blog of course. So to match my somewhat melancholy, autumnal mood, I gift thee with a little Robert Frost.
Road Not Taken
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
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
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.
11/23/2005 5:35 am
One scarcely expects to stumble upon the work of Robert Frost while perusing posts on this blogsite; it was a pleasure to do so while reading yours.|
I hope that you acheive a measure of happines, Annie. It isn't always easy but it's always worth the effort.
As you have shared Frost with others, I would like to shae this poem for you. Having read your last few posts, I thought of this one immediately and thought that yo might enjoy it.
The Lovely Shall Be Choosers
The Voice said, "Hurl her down!"
The Voices, "How far down?"
"Seven levels of the world."
"How much time have we?"
"Take twenty years.
She would refuse love safe with wealth and honor!
The lovely shall be choosers, shall they?
Then let them choose!"
"Then we shall let her choose?"
"Yes, let her choose.
Take up the task beyond her choosing."
Invisible hands crowded on her shoulder
In readiness to weigh upon her.
But she stood straight still,
In broad round ear-rings, gold and jet with pearls
And broad round suchlike brooch,
Her cheecks high colored
Pround and pride of friends.
The Voice asked, "You can let her choose?"
"Yes, we can let her and still triumph."
"Do it by joys, and leave her always blameless.
Be her first joy her wedding,
That though a wedding,
Is yet-- well something they know, he and she.
And after that her next joy
That though she grieves, her grief is secret:
Those friends know nothing of her grief to make it shameful.
Her third joy that though now they cannot help but know,
They move in pleasure too far off
To think much or much care.
Give her a child at either knee for fourth joy
To tell once and once only, for them never to forget,
How once she walked in brightness,
And make them see it in the winter firelight.
But give her friends for then she dare not tell
For their foregone incredulousness.
And be her next joy this:
Her never having deigned to tell them.
Make her among the humblest even
Seem to them less than they are.
Hopeless of being known for what she has been,
Failing of being loved for what she is,
Give her the comfort for her sixth of knowing
She fails from strangeness to a way of life
She came to from too high too late to learn.
Then send some one with eyes to see
And wonder at her where she is,
And words to wonder in her hearing how she came there,
But without time to linger for her story.
Be her last joy her heart's going out to this one
So that she almost speaks.
You know them-- seven in all."
"Trust us," the Voices said.
11/23/2005 8:26 am
That was beautiful and so thoughtful. Thank you so much for your interest and care.