ROBERT FROST

BIOGRAPHY

Robert Frost, in full Robert Lee Frost, (born March 26, 1874, San Francisco, California,
U.S.—died January 29, 1963, Boston, Massachusetts), American poet who was much admired
for his depictions of the rural life of New England, his command of American colloquial speech,
and his realistic verse portraying ordinary people in everyday situations.

Frost’s father, William Prescott Frost, Jr., was a journalist with ambitions of establishing
a career in California, and in 1873 he and his wife moved to San Francisco. Her husband’s
untimely death from tuberculosis in 1885 prompted Isabelle Moodie Frost to take her two
children, Robert and Jeanie, to Lawrence, Massachusetts, where they were taken in by the
children’s paternal grandparents. While their mother taught at a variety of schools in New
Hampshire and Massachusetts, Robert and Jeanie grew up in Lawrence, and Robert graduated
from high school in 1892. A top student in his class, he shared valedictorian honours with Elinor
White, with whom he had already fallen in love.

Robert and Elinor shared a deep interest in poetry. Meanwhile, Robert continued to
labour on the poetic career he had begun in a small way during high school; he first achieved
professional publication in 1894 when The Independent, a weekly literary journal, printed his
poem “My Butterfly: An Elegy.” Impatient with academic routine, Frost left Dartmouth after less
than a year. He and Elinor married in 1895 but found life difficult, and the young poet supported
them by teaching school and farming, neither with notable success. During the next dozen years,
six children were born, two of whom died early, leaving a family of one son and three daughters.

By 1911 Frost was fighting against discouragement. Poetry had always been considered a
young person’s game, but Frost, who was nearly 40 years old, had not published a single book of
poems and had seen just a handful appear in magazines.

Accordingly, in August 1912 the Frost family sailed across the Atlantic to England. Frost
carried with him sheaves of verses he had written but not gotten into print. English publishers in
London did indeed prove more receptive to innovative verse, and, through his own vigorous
efforts and those of the expatriate American poet Ezra Pound, Frost within a year had published
A Boy’s Will (1913). From this first book, such poems as “Storm Fear,” “The Tuft of Flowers,”
and “Mowing” became standard anthology pieces.

A Boy’s Will was followed in 1914 by a second collection, North of Boston, that
introduced some of the most popular poems in all of Frost’s work, among them “Mending Wall,”
“The Death of the Hired Man,” “Home Burial,” and “After Apple-Picking.”

The Boston poet Amy Lowell traveled to England in 1914, and in the bookstores there
she encountered Frost’s work. Taking his books home to America, Lowell then began a
campaign to locate an American publisher for them, meanwhile writing her own laudatory
review of North of Boston.

The American publishing house of Henry Holt had brought out its edition of North of
Boston in 1914. It became a best-seller, and, by the time the Frost family landed in Boston, Holt
was adding the American edition of A Boy’s Will. Frost soon found himself besieged by
magazines seeking to publish his poems.

THE ROAD IS NOT TAKEN

“The Road Not Taken” is a narrative poem, meaning it is a poem that tells a story. It was
written in 1915 as a joke for Frost’s friend, Edward Thomas. Frost and Thomas were fond of
hiking together, and Thomas often had trouble making up his mind which trail they should
follow. (Yes, that’s right: one of the most famous American poems was originally written as a
goofy private joke between two friends!)

Frost first read it to some college students who, to his surprise, thought it a very serious
poem. “The Road Not Taken” was first published in the August 1915 issue of The Atlantic
Monthly, and then was re-published as the opening poem in his poetry collection Mountain
Interval the next year.

“The Road Not Taken” has become well known for its perceived encouragement to take
the “[road] less traveled by.” In other words, many people interpret this poem as a call to blaze
new trails and break away from the status quo. This is partly why lots of people misremember
the poem’s title as “The Road Less Travelled.”

Frost and Thomas were great friends while Frost lived in England, both of them were
well-read and very interested in nature. They frequently took long walks together, observing
nature in the English countryside. However, Frost’s time in England ended in 1915 when World
War I was on the verge of breaking out. He returned to the United States to avoid the war and
fully expected Thomas to follow him.

Thomas did not. Frost’s poem came in the mail as Thomas was deciding whether to leave
Europe or to participate in the war effort. While “The Road Not Taken” wasn’t the only thing
that made Thomas enlist and fight in World War I, it was a factor in his decision. Thomas,
regretting his lack of achievement compared to his good friend Frost and feeling that the poem
mocked his indecisiveness, decided to take initiative and fight for his country. Unfortunately,
Thomas was killed at the Battle of Arras on April 9, 1917.

MEANING OF “THE ROAD NO TAKEN”

“The Road Not Taken” is a poem that argues for the importance of our choices, both big
and small, since they shape our journey through life. For Frost, the most important decisions we
make aren’t the ones we spend tons of time thinking about, like who we have relationships with,
where we go to college, or what our future career should be. Instead, Frost’s poem posits that the
small choices we make each and every day also have big impacts on our lives. Each decision we
make sets us upon a path that we may not understand the importance of until much, much later.

This theme is reflected throughout the poem. For instance, the poem begins with a
speaker placing us in a scene, specifically at the point where two roads break away from each
other in the middle of a “yellow wood.”

The speaker is sorry they cannot go both directions and still “be one traveler,” which is to
say that they cannot live two divergent lives and still be one single person. In other words, the
speaker can’t “have their cake and eat it, too.” The speaker has to choose one direction to go
down, because like in life, making a decision often means that other doors are subsequently shut
for you.

For example, if you choose to go to college at UCLA, that means you’re also choosing
not to go to college elsewhere. You’ll never know what it would be like to go to the University
of Michigan or as a freshman straight out of high school because you made a different choice.
But this is true for smaller, day-to-day decisions as well. Choosing who you spend time with,
how hard you study, and what hobbies your pursue are examples of smaller choices that also
shape your future, too.

The speaker of the poem understands that. They stand at the crossroads of these two paths
for a long time, contemplating their choice. First, they stare down one path as far as he or she
can, to where it trails off into the undergrowth. The speaker then decides to take the other path,
which they state is just as “fair,” meaning just as attractive as the first. The narrator states that the
second path “wanted wear,” meaning that it was slightly more overgrown than the first path.

But more importantly, no matter which path the speaker takes, they know they’re
committed to follow it wherever it may lead.

While the speaker says they “saved the first” path for “another day” to make them feel
better about their decision, the next two lines show that the speaker realizes they probably won’t
be able to double back and take the first path, no matter where the second one leads. Just like in
life, each path leads to another path, and then another. In other words, the decisions we make in
the moment add up and influence where we end up in life--and we don’t really get a “redo” on.
 After choosing their path, the speaker says they look forward to a day far in the future
when, “with a sigh,” they’ll tell people about taking the road “less traveled by,/And that has
made all the difference.”

Does this mean that taking the one less traveled has “made all the difference” in a good
way?

Saying so “with a sigh” doesn’t necessarily sound like a good thing. The poem isn’t at all
clear on whether or not taking the less traveled path was a good choice or a bad choice. So while
the poem is clear that all of our choices shape the path we take in life, it’s more ambiguous about
whether choosing “less traveled” paths is a good thing or not. That’s up to readers to decide.

REFLECTION

In the poem, a traveler is reflecting on a recent decision that he has made as well as
looking ahead in anticipation of his future reminiscences about the event. He was faced with a
choice between two apparently identical paths, neither of which had been used that day, and
required to choose one while telling himself that he could always come back to the other. Still,
he does not expect to return, instead he contemplates how this decision will look, “…ages and
ages hence…” and decides that he will remember his choice as taking the road less traveled.

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;

This stanza brings about familiar emotions through evocative imagery and a relatable
situation. Frost’s choice to use the adjective “yellow” has a unique effect. The color yellow is
usually associated with cheerfulness or optimism; however, when used to describe the wood, it
takes on a sickly feel. The image described by the poem immediately becomes jaundiced, and a
sense of distaste is detected in the traveler.

As I read this stanza, the familiarity of the situation immediately strikes me. Being faced
with two paths and equipped only with the knowledge that I could only choose one is frustrating.
The traveler’s pause to analyze the situation is completely understandable; I also try to “look
ahead” whenever faced with a choice. However, the disappearance of the path as it winds into
the undergrowth often happens much too soon. This image creates an unintentional allusion for
me; I am reminded of Christian’s journey in Pilgrim’s Progress and of how he was often faced
with an uncertain path.
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,

Here, the crux of the decision’s difficulty is presented. Neither path has any particular
characteristics or qualities that would lend themselves to choosing one way or another. They
looked equally “fair” and the only distinction is that the second path seems to have slightly less
wear from travelers. This slight difference is emphasized as even more inconsequential by the
fact that, when the speaker takes the path, it is then equally worn.

Again, this stanza presents a difficulty that I find relatable, being presented with a
decision but feeling at a loss because of a lack of information. Sometimes life comes to a fork,
and a decision must be made. Without knowing either the lasting benefits or consequences of
either choice, the only recourse available is to look for signs of people who have gone before.
Sometimes, this results in a “grasping at straws” and placing more significance on minor details
than they actually deserve.

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.

Unfortunately for the traveler, neither of the paths had any evidence of previous passage.
As in the last stanza, he was looking for any information that he could use to aid his decision or
suggest a companion in his journey. However, he made his choice, picking the second path, but
telling himself that he could always return for the other path at some other time. Yet, despite this
alternative, he remorsefully admits to himself his uncertainty that it would ever occur.

Finding people who have had similar experiences to oneself is a comfort, especially if
they can advise you about upcoming choices. I know that the bond of similar experience can
spark an immediate relationship. The concept of “keeping options open” is another characteristic
of this poem that I can relate to. The idea that a choice being made does not have permanent
consequences takes a load off my mind. However, this relief is often a false sense of comfort
because, as the speaker goes on to say, “…way leads on to way…” and this is all to true. Life
moves in one direction, and any attempt to return to a previous choice is much like trying to
flatten a crumpled piece of paper, it will never quite be the same as it was.

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.

Finally having chosen a road to take, the traveler begins to contemplate the future effects
of his decision. He recognizes that he will look back with a sigh, whether of regret over the
decision or of yearning for the time of decision again depends on the difference that the choice
makes, and attribute the results of his choice to the fact that he chose the road “…less traveled
by…” despite the fact that the paths were essentially identical.

With this conclusion, I draw two separate lessons from the poem. The first is applicable
if the choice that was made truly had equivalent options. Here, the speaker cynically assumes
that he will regret his decision and will have to infuse a measure of heroism, taking the road less
traveled, to reconcile his decision. I see this as a warning not to be caught debating the menial
decisions in life and worrying about future results that may not even occur. The second relates to
a decision that truly results in a dramatic variation in outcome. In these cases, the poem can still
serve as a warning. Knowing that there is a possibility for a negative consequence, the choice
should be surrendered to one who knows where each of the paths leads. To avoid the regret of a
hasty decision leading to unintended outcomes, the burden of the decision should be cast by faith
upon the Lord who knows the best path in every situation.

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" is a poem by Robert Frost, written in 1922,
and published in 1923 in his New Hampshire volume. Imagery, personification, and repetition
are prominent in the work. In a letter to Louis Untermeyer, Frost called it "my best bid for
remembrance".
Frost wrote the poem in June 1922 at his house in Shaftsbury, Vermont. He had been up
the entire night writing the long poem "New Hampshire" from the poetry collection of the same
name, and had finally finished when he realized morning had come. He went out to view the
sunrise and suddenly got the idea for "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening".[2] He wrote
the new poem "about the snowy evening and the little horse as if I'd had a hallucination" in just
"a few minutes without strain."
 The speaker in the poem is traveling at night through the snow and pauses with his horse
near the woods by a neighbor's house to watch the snow falling around him. His horse shakes his
harness bells, questioning the pause; perhaps this place isn't on their usual route, or he is curious
that there doesn't appear to be a farmhouse nearby.
The speaker continues to stand near the woods, attracted by the deep, dark silence of his
surroundings. He feels compelled to move further into the snowy woods, but he ultimately
decides to continue, concluding with perhaps the most famous lines of the poem: 'But I have
promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.'

REFLECTION
On the surface, this poem is simplicity itself. The speaker is stopping by some woods on
a snowy evening. He or she takes in the lovely scene in near-silence, is tempted to stay longer,
but acknowledges the pull of obligations and the considerable distance yet to be traveled before
he or she can rest for the night.

The poem consists of four (almost) identically constructed stanzas. Each line is iambic,
with four stressed syllables:

Within the four lines of each stanza, the first, second, and fourth lines rhyme. The third
line does not, but it sets up the rhymes for the next stanza. For example, in the third stanza,
queer, near, and year all rhyme, but lake rhymes with shake, mistake, and flake in the following
stanza.
The notable exception to this pattern comes in the final stanza, where the third line
rhymes with the previous two and is repeated as the fourth line.

Do not be fooled by the simple words and the easiness of the rhymes; this is a very
difficult form to achieve in English without debilitating a poem’s content with forced rhymes.
This is a poem to be marveled at and taken for granted. Like a big stone, like a body of
water, like a strong economy, however it was forged it seems that, once made, it has always been
there. Frost claimed that he wrote it in a single nighttime sitting; it just came to him. Perhaps one
hot, sustained burst is the only way to cast such a complete object, in which form and content,
shape and meaning, are alloyed inextricably. One is tempted to read it, nod quietly in recognition
of its splendor and multivalent meaning, and just move on. But one must write essays. Or study
guides.

Like the woods it describes, the poem is lovely but entices us with dark depths—of
interpretation, in this case. It stands alone and beautiful, the account of a man stopping by woods
on a snowy evening, but gives us a come-hither look that begs us to load it with a full inventory
of possible meanings. We protest, we make apologies, we point to the dangers of reading poetry
in this way, but unlike the speaker of the poem, we cannot resist.
The last two lines are the true culprits. They make a strong claim to be the most
celebrated instance of repetition in English poetry. The first “And miles to go before I sleep”
stays within the boundaries of literalness set forth by the rest of the poem. We may suspect, as
we have up to this point, that the poem implies more than it says outright, but we can’t insist on
it; the poem has gone by so fast, and seemed so straightforward. Then comes the second “And
miles to go before I sleep,” like a soft yet penetrating gong; it can be neither ignored nor
forgotten. The sound it makes is “Ahhh.” And we must read the verses again and again and offer
trenchant remarks and explain the “Ahhh” in words far inferior to the poem. For the last “miles
to go” now seems like life; the last “sleep” now seems like death.