Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

BY ROBERT FROST

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 offense.

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.’

- William Stafford 

1. Frost is at the dinner table for his final meal of the day. His personal season of fertility is over. He observes. He is aware of the trials for the seed. But the seed is already planted and he cannot control it with his own will. It will grow without Frost’s control. The trick is to watch and allow life to be.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

"I Slept All Day" is a short poem by Robert Frost that expresses a simple yet profound sentiment about life, happiness, and the value of time. Let's analyze the poem stanza by stanza:

Stanza 1:

"The birds do thus

That sing a while

At eve for us"

In these lines, Frost is drawing a parallel between the birds that sing in the evening and the speaker's desire to have someone dear to them soon. The birds' singing represents a fleeting, ephemeral moment of beauty, just like the joy and anticipation the speaker feels about the arrival of their loved one.

Stanza 2:

"To have you soon

I gave away --

Well satisfied

To give -- a day"

Here, the speaker reveals that they gave away a day in anticipation of the arrival of their loved one. This act of sacrifice is done willingly and happily, as the speaker is "well satisfied" with giving away a day of their life to be with the person they care about.

Stanza 3:

"Life's not so short

I care to keep

The unhappy days;

I choose to sleep."

In these lines, Frost presents a broader philosophical perspective on life. The speaker suggests that life is not so short that they would want to hold onto or preserve the unhappy days. Instead, they choose to "sleep," which can be interpreted both literally as a peaceful rest and metaphorically as a way to avoid or escape from the unpleasant aspects of life.

Overall, the poem reflects a desire for joy and contentment in life, a willingness to give up time for the sake of love and happiness, and a preference for focusing on positive experiences while avoiding unnecessary suffering. Frost's concise and thought-provoking style captures the essence of these sentiments, inviting readers to reflect on their own approach to life and the pursuit of happiness.

In the poem "Iota Subscript" by Robert Frost, the speaker adopts a stance of humility and self-effacement. Throughout the poem, the speaker strives to diminish the prominence of their own ego, symbolized by the letter "I," whether capitalized or lowercase. Instead, the speaker is content with assuming the role of a mere "subscript" to the ubiquitous you. 

In a world where self-centeredness often takes precedence, where "me" comes before "you," and personal interests overshadow acts of service, the speaker of this poem dares to defy the norm by prioritizing the "you." This mindset of genuine other-focused consideration is a rarity in the contemporary world, a concept so foreign that Robert Frost employs the metaphor of the Greek language to underscore its exceptional nature. By using Greek in his poem, Frost suggests that this mode of thinking, characterized by its emphasis on others, is akin to something unfamiliar or exotic, almost as if it were a linguistic or philosophical outlier in a society largely preoccupied with self-interest.

This "you" can also be the reader. The notion of being a "subscript to you" encapsulates the speaker's willingness to subsume their identity for the sake of the reader's experience. It highlights the poet's belief that poetry is a shared endeavor, with the reader playing a pivotal role in extracting meaning and relevance from the verses. By embracing the role of a subscript, the speaker invites the reader to become an active participant in the poem's interpretation, underlining the collaborative and interactive nature of poetry. In doing so, Frost not only underscores the idea of humility but also emphasizes the importance of connection and engagement between the poet and the audience, where the reader's perspective is of equal significance.

"... See how the brook in that white wave runs counter to itself. It is from that in water we were from ... "

West Running Brook
'Fred, where is north?'

'North? North is there, my love.
The brook runs west.'

'West-running Brook then call it.'
(West-Running Brook men call it to this day.)
'What does it think k's doing running west
When all the other country brooks flow east
To reach the ocean? It must be the brook
Can trust itself to go by contraries
The way I can with you -- and you with me --
Because we're -- we're -- I don't know what we are.
What are we?'

'Young or new?'

'We must be something.
We've said we two. Let's change that to we three.
As you and I are married to each other,
We'll both be married to the brook. We'll build
Our bridge across it, and the bridge shall be
Our arm thrown over it asleep beside it.
Look, look, it's waving to us with a wave
To let us know it hears me.'

' 'Why, my dear,
That wave's been standing off this jut of shore --'
(The black stream, catching a sunken rock,
Flung backward on itself in one white wave,
And the white water rode the black forever,
Not gaining but not losing, like a bird
White feathers from the struggle of whose breast
Flecked the dark stream and flecked the darker pool
Below the point, and were at last driven wrinkled
In a white scarf against the far shore alders.)
'That wave's been standing off this jut of shore
Ever since rivers, I was going to say,'
Were made in heaven. It wasn't waved to us.'

'It wasn't, yet it was. If not to you
It was to me -- in an annunciation.'

'Oh, if you take it off to lady-land,
As't were the country of the Amazons
We men must see you to the confines of
And leave you there, ourselves forbid to enter,-
It is your brook! I have no more to say.'

'Yes, you have, too. Go on. You thought of something.'

'Speaking of contraries, see how the brook
In that white wave runs counter to itself.
It is from that in water we were from
Long, long before we were from any creature.
Here we, in our impatience of the steps,
Get back to the beginning of beginnings,
The stream of everything that runs away.
Some say existence like a Pirouot
And Pirouette, forever in one place,
Stands still and dances, but it runs away,
It seriously, sadly, runs away
To fill the abyss' void with emptiness.
It flows beside us in this water brook,
But it flows over us. It flows between us
To separate us for a panic moment.
It flows between us, over us, and with us.
And it is time, strength, tone, light, life and love-
And even substance lapsing unsubstantial;
The universal cataract of death
That spends to nothingness -- and unresisted,
Save by some strange resistance in itself,
Not just a swerving, but a throwing back,
As if regret were in it and were sacred.
It has this throwing backward on itself
So that the fall of most of it is always
Raising a little, sending up a little.
Our life runs down in sending up the clock.
The brook runs down in sending up our life.
The sun runs down in sending up the brook.
And there is something sending up the sun.
It is this backward motion toward the source,
Against the stream, that most we see ourselves in,
The tribute of the current to the source.
It is from this in nature we are from.
It is most us.'

'To-day will be the day....You said so.'

'No, to-day will be the day
You said the brook was called West-running Brook.'
'To-day will be the day of what we both said.'