Robert Frost [Ρόμπερτ Φροστ]


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Robert Lee Frost [Ρόμπερτ Λι Φροστ] (1874 - 1963)

Πορτρέτο του Φροστ, μεταξύ 1910-1920

Biography [Βιογραφία]
Robert Lee Frost (March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963) was an American poet. He is highly regarded for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech. His work frequently employed settings from rural life in New England in the early twentieth century, using them to examine complex social and philosophical themes. A popular and often-quoted poet, Frost was honored frequently during his lifetime, receiving four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry.[…]

Ο Ρόμπερτ Λι Φροστ (Robert Lee Frost, 26 Μαρτίου, 1874 – 29 Ιανουαρίου, 1963) ήταν Αμερικανός ποιητής. Τιμήθηκε τέσσερις φορές με το βραβείο Πούλιτζερ.
Αν και το όνομά του είναι κυρίως συνδεδεμένο με τη Νέα Αγγλία, ο Φροστ γεννήθηκε στο Σαν Φρανσίσκο της Καλιφόρνια. Η μητέρα του Ίσαμπελ Μούντι (Isabelle Moodie), είχε σκωτσέζικη καταγωγή και ο πατέρας του, Ουίλιαμ Πρέσκοτ Φροστ ο νεότερος, ήταν απόγονος των Φροστ από το Ντέβονσαϊρ, που εγκαταστάθηκαν στο New Hampshire το 1634. Ο πατέρας του, πρώην δάσκαλος, που αργότερα έγινε συντάκτης της εφημερίδας San Francisco Daily Evening Post, είχε πρόβλημα με τον αλκοολισμό και τον τζόγο, και εφάρμοζε σκληρή πειθαρχία στα παιδιά του. Είχε πάθος με την πολιτική και ασχολήθηκε ενεργά με αυτήν, όσο του το επέτρεπε η υγεία του.[…]


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« Last Edit: 19 Apr, 2020, 10:13:26 by spiros »
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Robert Frost, Mending Wall

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."


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