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Robert Frost Reflective PowerPoint ~Jamie-Lynn Tucker


Robert Frost Reflective PowerPoint ~Jamie-Lynn Tucker Robert Frost Mar.26, 1874- Jan.29, 1963 For starters, lets look at a few interesting facts ~Robert Lee Frost ... – PowerPoint PPT presentation

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Title: Robert Frost Reflective PowerPoint ~Jamie-Lynn Tucker

Robert Frost Reflective PowerPoint Jamie-Lynn
Robert Frost Mar.26, 1874- Jan.29, 1963
For starters, lets look at a few interesting
facts Robert Lee Frost was born in San
Francisco on March 26, 1874. His father died
when he was 11. He sold his first poem My
Butterfly An Elegy to the New York magazine The
Independent for 15.00. He married Elinor White
in 1895, and they had two children. He lived on
a farm in New Hampshire with his wife and
family. They moved to England in 1913 when he
was 38 so that he could pursue writing
more seriously. There he wrote and published
books A Boys Will and North of Boston
in 1914. He returned to the U.S in 1915 and was
surprised to find that North of Boston
was already published in New York. He is a four
time winner of the Pulitzer Prize. In the 20th
century, he was the most popular and best read
poet in the nation.
  • Chronology
  • 1874 Born on March 26 in San Francisco,
  • 1885 Father dies and family moves to Lawrence,
  • 1892 Graduates from Lawrence High School.
  • 189394 Studies at Dartmouth College.
  • 1895 Marries his high school sweetheart, Elinor
  • 189799 Studies at Harvard College.
  • 1900 Moves to a farm in West Derry, New
  • 1912 Moves to England, where he farms and writes.
  • 1913 A Boys Will is published in London.
  • 1914 North of Boston is published in London.
  • 1915 Moves to a farm near Franconia, New
  • 1916 Elected to National Institute of Letters.
  • 191720 Teaches at Amherst College.
  • 1919 Moves to South Shaftsbury, Vermont.
  • 192123 Teaches at the University of Michigan.
  • 1923 Selected Poems and New Hampshire are
    published the latter is awarded a Pulitzer
  • 1928 West-Running Brook is published.
  • 1930 Collected Poems is published.

Pictures of Robert Frost
  • WHEN I see birches bend to left and right
  • Across the line of straighter darker trees,
  • I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
  • But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
  • Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
  • Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
  • After a rain.

They click upon themselves As the breeze rises,
and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and
crazes their enamel. Soon the suns warmth makes
them shed crystal shells Shattering and
avalanching on the snow-crust- Such heaps of
broken glass to sweep away Youd think the inner
dome of heaven had fallen.
  • They are dragged to the withered bracken by the
  • And they seem not to break though once thy are
  • So low for long, they never right themselves
  • You may see their trunks arching in the woods
  • Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the
  • Like girls on hands and knees that throw their
  • Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.

But as I was going to say when Truth broke
in With all her matter-of-fact about the
ice-storm (Now am I free to be poetical?) I
should prefer to have some boy bend them As he
went out and in to fetch the cows- Some boy too
far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play
was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and
could play alone.
One by one he subdued his fathers trees By
riding them down and over and over again Until he
took the stiffness out of them, And not one but
hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer.
He learned all there was To learn about launching
out too soon And so not carrying the tree
away Clear to the ground. He always kept his
poise To the top branches, climbing
carefully With the same pains you use to fill a
cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then
he flung outward, feet first, with a
swish, Kicking his way down through the air to
the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches And so
I dream of going back to be. Its when Im weary
of considerations, And life is too much like a
pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles
with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is
weeping From a twigs having lashed across it
Id like to get away from earth awhile And then
come back to it and begin over. May no fate
willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I
wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earths
the right place for love
I dont know where its likely to go better. Id
like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb
black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward
heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But
dipped its top and set me down again. That would
be good both going and coming back. One could do
worse than be a swinger of birches.
Response to Birches
  • This poem has a theme of nature
    versus humans. He imagines that a boy was
    playing in the trees and bent the trees by
    swinging on them. He would rather think this
    than to think that nature, being as beautiful as
    it is could permanently bend the trees like that.
    His fantasy is interrupted by Truth, this was
    him not being able to block out the true facts
    that the damage was not done by an innocent young
  • I think that the birches are also
    symbolic of people, and how their backs can be
    arched permanently if they are always hunched
  • I also think that it means that a person
    may appear to be just a little bent out of shape,
    and will be fine soon, when really they are
  • Nobody ever wants to face the cruel truth
    about why they get that way, so they make up
    little stories to make it easier on their
  • He talks about the inner dome of heaven
    falling and being dragged to the withered
    bracken by the load. I think that this means
    that once a person goes through a large ordeal
    everything just keeps going downhill from there.
    They never seem to get on track again and soon
    the weight on their shoulders become too much to
    handle and they just break down.
  • He says So low for long, they never
    right themselves. I think that he means that
    once you are down for so long there seems like
    there is no way out. You feel beaten and cant
    lift yourself up, you can never right yourself.
  • He doesnt want to believe that the
    storm hurt the trees, much like us. We never
    want to admit to ourselves that something that we
    love would try to hurt us. We always make up
    excuses to ourselves to make it seem like it is
    something that its not. It always hurts us more
    to know the truth.
  • At the end he says that one could do worse
    than be a swinger of birches. So I guess he is
    saying that no matter how bad things seem to be
    they can always be worse. People will always
    have the capability to hurt us, but it is up to
    us as our own person, whether we let them destroy
    us or not. We are not like birch trees, we can
    stand up for ourselves against the biggest storm.

Mending Wall
Something there is that doesnt 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 and 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 an 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? Isnt it
  • Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
  • Before I built a wall Id ask to know
  • What I was walling in or walling out,
  • And to whom I was like to give offence.
  • Something there is that doesnt love a wall,
  • That wants it down. I could say Elves to him,
  • But its not elves exactly, and Id 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 fathers saying,
  • And he likes having thought of it so well
  • He says again, Good fences make good neighbors.

Response to Mending Wall
  • I think that in this poem, the wall
    that Frost is talking about is representing a
    wall that we each have. Not one around our yard,
    but one protecting our heart. We dont want
    anyone to know who we truly are, so we block them
    out. Good fences make good neighbors, what I
    think he means is that if we keep people from
    getting too close, then they cant hurt us.
    Gradually, we start to trust people and the wall
    starts to come down, this is when we become
    unsure of ourselves and begin to mend it.
  • He says, Before I built a wall Id ask to know
    what I was walling in our walling out. This
    line means a lot to me. I think he is saying for
    us to ask ourselves, what are we trying to hide?
    What am I scared of? He wants us to think of
    what we feelings we are bottling up inside and
    not letting out. As well as what we are missing
    by being so solitary.
  • Sometimes we dont want the wall to
    be there, and wish that we could take it down.
    The only problem is that we get so used to it
    that we dont know any different. We just keep
    telling ourselves that good walls make good
    neighbors and wont let go.

After Apple-picking
My long two-pointed ladders sticking through a
tree Toward heaven still, And theres a barrel
that I didnt fill Beside it, and there may be
two or three Apples I didnt pick upon some
bough. But I am done with apple-picking
now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The
scent of apples I am drowsing off. I cannot rub
the strangeness from my sight I got from looking
through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning
from the drinking trough And held against the
world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it
fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to
sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form
my dreaming was about to take.

Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end
and blossom end, And every fleck of russet
showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the
ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I
feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I
keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling
sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I
have had too much Of apple-picking I am
overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand fruit to touch, Cherish
in hand, lift down, and let not fall. For
all That struck the earth, No matter if not
bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to
the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see
what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever
sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck
could say whether its like his Long sleep, as I
describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.
Response to Apple-picking
  • I think that this poem is referring to
    events in life when they talk about picking
    apples. Each apple represents a task or occasion
    in your life. He says that there is a barrel
    that he did not fill. I think that he is talking
    about things that he never got to experience, or
    that he missed out on. He probably decided
    against doing something for some reason or
    another. But now they come back to haunt him in
    his dreams.
  • He cant think about anything else.
    He picks apples upon apples and he seems to be
    getting very tired. I think that this means that
    he has so much work to do that he cant handle
    it. He is talking about a point that we all
    reach sometime in our life, when we all get
    exhausted of everything.
  • I think that we all have nightmares
    like him, when all we can think about is how much
    work we still have left to do. As well as dreams
    where we dwell on our decisions that we make, and
    worry about everything. I find that the main
    theme in this poem is regretting something that
    you didnt do, and not being able to turn back.
    He feels as if he did not live his life to the
    fullest because he left some apples on the
    branches, now all he has is work to do, and there
    is no turning back. All he can do is wish that he
    had picked them. We need to be careful about the
    decisions that we make, but at the same time, we
    should know why we are making them, and not be
    afraid to take risks, or we might regret it later.

The Wood-pile
Out walking in the frozen swamp one grey day I
paused and said, I will turn back from here. No,
I will go on farther-and we shall see. The hard
snow held me, save where now and then One foot
went down. The view was all in lines Straight up
and down of tall slim trees Too much alike to
mark or name a place by So as certain I was
here Or somewhere else I was just far from
home. A small bird flew before me. He was
careful To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was Who was so
foolish as to think what he thought. He thought
that I was after him for a feather- The white one
in his tail like the one who takes Everything
said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived
him. And then there was a pile of wood for
which I forgot him and let his little fear Carry
him off the way I might have gone, Without so
much as wishing him good-night. He went behind it
to make his last stand. It was a cord of maple,
cut and split And pile- and measured, four by
four by eight. And not another like it could I
No runner tracks in this years snow looped near
it. And it was older sure than this years
cutting, Or even last years or the years
before. The wood was grey and the bark warping
off it And the pile somewhat sunken.
Clematis Had wound strings round and round it
like a bundle. What held it though on one side
was a tree Still growing, and on one a stake and
prop, These latter about to fall. I thought that
only Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which He spent
himself, the labor of his axe, And leave it there
far from a useful fireplace To warm the frozen
swamp as best it could With the slow smokeless
burning of decay.
Response to The Wood-pile
  • I think that this poem is about
    unfinished business. He finds a wood pile all
    neatly chopped up and its obvious that a lot of
    time was put into it. So he wonders why it was
    just left there. If he had turned back when he
    wanted to, then he would have never seen the bird
    that led him to the wood-pile. I think that the
    message in this poem is not turn around when you
    are tired, but to keep going because youll never
    know what you might find, or who you might meet.
    It might not be anything important, but it could
    still be a nice experience. Also, you could
    learn something new about something that you
    thought you were familiar with. He has been
    along that path many times but had never seen the
    wood before, now he is trying to think of the
    history behind it. So the wood was not really a
    waste, it attracted a bird who brought a person,
    who is now thinking of it, maybe someone just
    wanted to be remembered. I think that this poem
    is also about leaving your footprint in the world
    so that someday, like in the poem, something will
    remind someone of you and you will not be
    forgotten, you will live on through their

Well that concludes the show for today, hope you
had fun!!!