A Prayer in Spring
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
I feel that while the poem is in itself a "prayer", I think it is also the poets description of what he feels heaven will or should be. It sets a haunting yet strangely happy tone. At the same time, it gives a very powerful description. I picture, while reading this poem, a large meadow with rolling green grass up to my knees, a bright sun, and a blue sky dotted with a few clouds. There are flowers all over the field of all kinds, and trees whose branches crack in the wind.
The Vantage Point
If tired of trees I seek again mankind,
Well I know where to hie me—in the dawn,
To a slope where the cattle keep the lawn,
There amid lolling juniper reclined,
Myself unseen, I see in white defined
Far off the homes of men, and farther still,
The graves of men on an opposing hill,
Living or dead, whichever are to mind.
And if by noon I have too much of these,
I have but to turn on my arm, and lo,
The sunburned hillside sets my face aglow,
My breathing shakes the bluet like a breeze,
I smell the earth, I smell the bruisèd plant,
I look into the crater of the ant.
To me, it seems that the poet feels shielded and invisible to the outside world- like he has something to say but can't say it. This poem gives me a sense of sorrow and a little bit of anger. If I could rename this poem, I would call it "The Hermit's Poem". That is what I feel the man in the poem is-a hermit.
Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening
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.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
This, to me, is a haunting poem. A man seeking solitude and seclusion loves the woods... But at the same time it sounds like he has a family and loved ones waiting for him at home, and his duties to them are greater than his duties to himself. This poem makes me think of a dark cliff with tons of tall pine trees on it, looking down over a small town. It seems to me that the man writing the poem didn't care for the cities or towns, but for the secluded forest life... but he has family waiting in a city, and he cannot stop for his own desires.
The Pasture
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I shan't be gone long. -- You come too.
I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I shan't be gone long. -- You come too.
This poem makes me think of a young boy initially. On the surface, it sounds like a list of chores, but if you look more deeply into it, it is more a comforting poem to say to a child- "I shan't be gone too long- you come too". The more and more you read it over and over again, the more it sets in not as a list of chores but perhaps a mother telling her child she will be right back.
Stars
How countlessly they congregate
O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!--
As if with keenness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,--
And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight
This poem is a bit mysterious to me. I think that he is trying to relate to the different constellations and how they each tell a story, and how we each in our own way have a story in the stars. It also seems to hint that sometimes, a good life is right in front of us- we just fail to see it in our own stupidity.
