Chris and I took a small drive today, antiquing, looking for furniture for our new home. We did get a dining room table, but it was hard commit to anything else. We aren’t moved in yet and we have no place put anything…it makes collecting things difficult. The store where we did buy the table is storing it for us “until.”
As we drove, we saw a sign that read “Robert Frost Museum and Home,” or something like that. We followed the road just long enough for me to believe that we might have made a mistake, when we came upon Frost’s lovely homestead. There was a small poetry trail, and a welcome center complete with a short movie of the man’s life, as well as his simple home. Frost only lived there 5 years with his family. While he loved the area, he realized it was too cold to grow a garden, so he moved someplace in Vermont that was warmer or sunnier. The home houses a poet every year, some lucky individual who gets to live and write in Frost’s sweet abode. My guess is that it is only a summer thing…the locale seems hard enough to reach in summer and the wood stove didn’t seem functioning. Nevertheless. three months in Frost’s home would be lovely.
A poem by Robert Frost
Happiness Makes Up In Height For What It lacks in Length
O stormy, stormy world,
The days you were not swirled
Around with mist and cloud,
Or wrapped as in a shroud,
And the sun’s brilliant ball
Was not in part or all
Obscured from mortal view–
Were days so very few
I can but wonder whence
I get the lasting sense
Of so much warmth and light.
If my mistrust is right
It may be altogether
From one day’s perfect weather,
When starting clear at dawn
The day swept clearly on
To finish clear at eve.
I verily believe
My fair impression may
Be all from that one day
No shadow crossed but ours
As through its blazing flowers
We went from house to wood
For change of solitude.
deidre noreen 