ravenous reader Posted December 21, 2016 Author Share Posted December 21, 2016 14 hours ago, Wizz-The-Smith said: TREE AT MY WINDOW – ROBERT FROST Tree at my window, window tree My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me Vague dream head lifted out of the ground, And thing next most diffuse to cloud, Not all your light tongues talking aloud Could be profound But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed, And if you have seen me when I slept, You have seen me when I was taken and swept And all but lost. That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather. Frost was reluctant to parse any of his own poetry, leading to many an opinion on his work. But the relationship between man, tree and nature in this particular poem reminds me of Bran. In particular Bran 'watching/seeing' events unfold through his window at Winterfell in AGOT [WF being described as a 'monstrous stone tree'] There are also the 'dreams' and the trees being 'taken and tossed', [rustling leaves] plus Bran could also be seen as have being 'taken, swept and lost' while in his coma state, and if Bloodraven was present then so was the weirwood tree, 'watching as he slept'. Sorry for the delayed reply, and thank you for having me delve deeper into poetry than I ever have before. Having caught up with the thread, and read some of the analysis on the poems I have come across, I can honestly say I've enjoyed every minute of it. So again my thanks go out to you, my most poetic friend. Quote Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather. Wow. @Wizz-The-Smith-- This is my favorite Robert Frost poem: I love it, because I don't understand it. I love it, because it's true. I love it, because he's vastly different to me -- and yet I feel at home. I love it, because he's forgiven me in advance, for not understanding. DIRECTIVE Back out of all this now too much for us, Back in a time made simple by the loss Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather, There is a house that is no more a house Upon a farm that is no more a farm And in a town that is no more a town. The road there, if you'll let a guide direct you Who only has at heart your getting lost, May seem as if it should have been a quarry – Great monolithic knees the former town Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered. And there's a story in a book about it: Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest, The chisel work of an enormous Glacier That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole. You must not mind a certain coolness from him Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain. Nor need you mind the serial ordeal Of being watched from forty cellar holes As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins. As for the woods' excitement over you That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves, Charge that to upstart inexperience. Where were they all not twenty years ago? They think too much of having shaded out A few old pecker-fretted apple trees. Make yourself up a cheering song of how Someone's road home from work this once was, Who may be just ahead of you on foot Or creaking with a buggy load of grain. The height of the adventure is the height Of country where two village cultures faded Into each other. Both of them are lost.And if you're lost enough to find yourself By now, pull in your ladder road behind you And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me. Then make yourself at home. The only field Now left's no bigger than a harness gall. First there's the children's house of make-believe, Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,The playthings in the playhouse of the children. Weep for what little things could make them glad. Then for the house that is no more a house, But only a belilaced cellar hole, Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.This was no playhouse but a house in earnest. Your destination and your destiny's A brook that was the water of the house, Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,Too lofty and original to rage. (We know the valley streams that when aroused Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)I have kept hidden in the instep arch Of an old cedar at the waterside A broken drinking goblet like the Grail Under a spell so the wrong ones can't find it, So can't get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn't. (I stole the goblet from the children's playhouse.)Here are your waters and your watering place. Drink and be whole again beyond confusion. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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