Dear Diary,
I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow
to keep an appointment with a beech-tree,
or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines.
to keep an appointment with a beech-tree,
or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines.
Henry David Thoreau, 1817 - 1862
Just pictures and a poem today.
The poem is by the great American poet Robert Frost and was introduced to me by Mountainear in a comment on my last posting. Thank you Mountainear; I love this poem.
The first picture is a photo of our river taken by M.
Birches
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines 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 willfully 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.
Robert Frost
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines 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 willfully 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.
Robert Frost
Though a tree grows so high, the falling leaves return to the root.
Malay proverb
Malay proverb
Do not be afraid to go out on a limb ... That's where the fruit is.
- Anonymous
- Anonymous
Bye for now,
Cait.
Cait.
Wonderful poem Cait - somehow it reminded me of when I was a child and a friend had a huge weeping willow in the garden and we made camps inside.
ReplyDeleteGreat image and poem Cait. TFx
ReplyDeleteLovely, Cait. And that river picture is just spectacular - perfectly captures the sense of light on water.
ReplyDeleteLovely post and picture, Cait. I love trees and the language of trees.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much for your message on mine. The programmes are another sign that the time's right to write my book.
xxPat
Yes, this is one of my favorite poems - how well Frost observes the tree and remembers the joys of climbing it.
ReplyDeleteLovely poetry selections, Cait! I've enjoyed sitting here, taking a break, and reading them both. I'm also interested in reading Edgar Sawtelle, so it's good to know you are enjoying it. Stay warm!!
ReplyDeleteAh, Cait, you have done it again, offered me poetry I ought to have known, but did not.
ReplyDeleteI so thank you.
And I so hope that next time, you will post more of your very own writing!
xo
How beautiful! Thanks Cait.
ReplyDeleteHello Cait. I am as ever very behind on my blogs, but thank you for the lovely poems and I hope you are feeling better after all your ilness xx
ReplyDeleteI love the poem and the photo as always. Hope you and yours are set for a good Christmas.
ReplyDeleteThank you for a lovely post. Here's wishing you a happy Christmas, Cx
ReplyDeletespectacular photo and the perfect poem to go with your quotes
ReplyDeleteDear Cait,
ReplyDeleteYour posts are such a joy to read, thank you for the beautiful Poem and wonderful picture of the River.
xx