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    New Hampshire: Poems
    New Hampshire: Poems
    New Hampshire: Poems
    Ebook131 pages1 hour

    New Hampshire: Poems

    By Robert Frost

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    About this ebook

    This Pulitzer Prize–winning poetry collection from 1923 features some of the most enduring works by one of the finest American poets of the twentieth century.
     
    One of the most beloved and influential poets in American letters, Robert Frost won his first of four Pulitzer Prizes for this collection of poems inspired by the cold and wild places of New Hampshire in winter. From vivid depictions of provincial life to wry accounts of city dwellers to striking contemplations of the end of the world, the poems collected here are quintessential Frost.
     
    Along with the lengthy title poem, this volume boasts some of Frost’s most famous and significant works, including “Fire and Ice,” “Nothing Gold Can Stay,” and “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” which Frost himself called “my best bid for remembrance.”
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateJan 14, 2020
    ISBN9781504060530
    New Hampshire: Poems
    Author

    Robert Frost

    Robert Frost (1874-1963) was an American poet. Born in San Francisco, Frost moved with his family to Lawrence, Massachusetts following the death of his father, a teacher and editor. There, he attended Lawrence High School and went on to study for a brief time at Dartmouth College before returning home to work as a teacher, factory worker, and newspaper delivery person. Certain of his calling as a poet, Frost sold his first poem in 1894, embarking on a career that would earn him acclaim and honor unlike any American poet before or since. Before his paternal grandfather’s death, he purchased a farm in Derry, New Hampshire for Robert and his wife Elinor. For the next decade, Frost worked on the farm while writing poetry in the mornings before returning to teaching once more. In 1912, having moved to England, Frost published A Boy’s Will, his first book of poems. Through the next several years, he wrote and published poetry while befriending such writers as Edward Thomas and Ezra Pound. In 1915, after publishing North of Boston (1914) in London, Frost returned to the United States to settle on another farm in Franconia, New Hampshire, where he continued writing and teaching and began lecturing. Over the next several decades, Frost published numerous collections of poems, including New Hampshire: A Poem with Notes and Grace Notes (1924) and Collected Poems (1931), winning a total of four Pulitzer Prizes and establishing his reputation as the foremost American poet of his generation.

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      Book preview

      New Hampshire - Robert Frost

      New Hampshire

      New Hampshire

      I met a lady from the South who said

      (You won’t believe she said it, but she said it):

      "None of my family ever worked, or had

      A thing to sell." I don’t suppose the work

      Much matters. You may work for all of me.

      I’ve seen the time I’ve had to work myself.

      The having anything to sell¹ is what

      Is the disgrace in man or state or nation.

      I met a traveller from Arkansas

      Who boasted of his state as beautiful

      For diamonds and apples. "Diamonds

      And apples in commercial quantities?"

      I asked him, on my guard. Oh yes, he answered,

      Off his. The time was evening in the Pullman.

      I see the porter’s made your bed, I told him.

      I met a Californian who would

      Talk California—a state so blessed,

      He said, in climate none had ever died there

      A natural death, and Vigilance Committees

      Had had to organize to stock the graveyards

      And vindicate the state’s humanity.

      Just the way Steffanson runs on, I murmured,

      "About the British Arctic. That’s what comes

      Of being in the market with a climate."

      I met a poet from another state,

      A zealot full of fluid inspiration,

      Who in the name of fluid inspiration,

      But in the best style of bad salesmanship,

      Angrily tried to make me write a protest

      (In verse I think) against the Volstead Act.

      He didn’t even offer me a drink

      Until I asked for one to steady him.

      This is called having an idea to sell.

      It never could have happened in New Hampshire.

      The only person really soiled with trade

      I ever stumbled on in old New Hampshire

      Was someone who had just come back ashamed

      From selling things in California.

      He’d built a noble mansard roof with balls

      On turrets like Constantinople, deep

      In woods some ten miles from a railroad station,

      As if to put forever out of mind

      The hope of being, as we say, received.

      I found him standing at the close of day

      Inside the threshold of his open barn,

      Like a lone actor on a gloomy stage—

      And recognized him through the iron grey

      In which his face was muffled to the eyes

      As an old boyhood friend, and once indeed

      A drover with me on the road to Brighton.

      His farm was grounds, and not a farm at all;

      His house among the local sheds and shanties

      Rose like a factor’s at a trading station.

      And he was rich, and I was still a rascal.

      I couldn’t keep from asking impolitely,

      Where had he been and what had he been doing?

      How did he get so? (Rich was understood.)

      In dealing in old rags in San Francisco.

      Oh it was terrible as well could be.

      We both of us turned over in our graves.

      Just specimens is all New Hampshire has,

      One each of everything as in a show-case

      Which naturally she doesn’t care to sell.

      She had one President (pronounce him Purse,

      And make the most of it for better or worse.

      He’s your one chance to score against the state).

      She had one Daniel Webster. He was all

      The Daniel Webster ever was or shall be.

      She had the Dartmouth needed to produce him.

      I call her old. She has one family

      Whose claim is good to being settled here

      Before the era of colonization,

      And before that of exploration even.

      John Smith remarked them as he coasted by

      Dangling their legs and fishing off a wharf

      At the Isles of Shoals, and satisfied himself

      They weren’t Red Indians but veritable

      Pre-primitives of the white race, dawn people,

      Like those who furnished Adam’s sons with wives;

      However uninnocent they may have been

      In being there so early in our history.

      They’d been there then a hundred years or more.

      Pity he didn’t ask what they were up to

      At that date with a wharf already built,

      And take their name. They’ve since told me their name—

      Today an honored one in Nottingham.

      As for what they were up to more than fishing—

      Suppose they weren’t behaving Puritanly,

      The hour had not yet struck for being good,

      Mankind had not yet gone on the Sabbatical.

      It became an explorer of the deep

      Not to explore too deep in others’ business.

      Did you but know of him, New Hampshire has

      One real reformer who would change the world

      So it would be accepted by two classes,

      Artists the minute they set up as artists,

      Before, that is, they are themselves accepted,

      And boys the minute they get out of college.

      I can’t help thinking those are tests to go by.

      And she has one I don’t know what to call him,

      Who comes from Philadelphia every year

      With a great flock of chickens of rare breeds

      He wants to give the educational

      Advantages of growing almost wild

      Under the watchful eye of hawk and eagle—

      Dorkings because they’re spoken of by Chaucer,

      Sussex because they’re spoken of by Herrick.

      She has a touch of gold. New Hampshire gold—²

      You may have heard of it. I had a

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