Quote:
Originally posted by Marilyn Taylor:
I found myself flipping through some Robert Frost today--the semester is over and I can indulge myself-- and I re-read "Birches." It confirmed a suspicion I've harbored for a long time that I've never really articulated till now: I hate that last line. It's a very fine poem, of course-- but I honestly think that as a way to end it, one could do a whole lot better than be a swinger of birches. Way too cute for me. Strange verb usage, too.
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Marilyn,
I am a fine example of someone who talked without knowing what they were talking about. I had been overwhelmed by "real life" and if I had any sense that would have made me keep my half-baked opinion to myself.
I have just actually READ "Birches" and I think it's wonderful. When I was a child there was a giant macrocarpa tree in a paddock behind our house and the thing I loved most in the world was to swing up and down--as high as I dared, on its supple branches.
I do agree with you that the last line is a sort of cop out. I don't see any connection (this time) to any strange practices. (Australians are used to the composer
Percy Grainger and the idea of an artist flagellating himself is rather familiar.) But in this case I don't think any such meaning may be inferred. I think Frost just ran out of inspiration.
Janet
PS: Although, as Marilyn and Rose say, it is a
very strange line. Perhaps the jury is still out?
[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited May 27, 2006).]