To Earthward

Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air
That crossed me from sweet things,
The scent of — was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Down hill at dusk?
I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they’re gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.
I craved sweet things, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.
Now no joy but lacks salt
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain
Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.
When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,
The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length.

***

Upon his wife’s death in 1938, Robert Frost was so bereaved that he left the house in Amherst where he had lived with her for most of their marriage. He returned to Vermont and opened a chapter of his life in which he felt both attracted to and at odds with his relationship to the natural world. Without his wife, he felt disoriented in his life as well as his poetry. To Earthward offers a glimpse at the Robert Frost who didn’t seem quite as content in his place as our dear statue of him on the freshman quad might make us believe.