The Impulse
It was too lonely for her there,
And too wild,
And since there were but two of them,
And no child,
And work was little in the house,
She was free,
And followed where he furrowed field,
Or felled tree.
She rested on a log and tossed
The fresh chips,
With a song only to herself
On her lips.
And once she went to break a bough
Of black alder.
She strayed so far she scarcely heard
When he called her —
And didn’t answer — didn’t speak —
Or return.
She stood, and then she ran and hid
In the fern.
He never found her, though he looked
Everywhere,
And he asked at her mother’s house
Was she there.
Sudden and swift and light as that
The ties gave,
And he learned of finalities
Besides the grave.
The Impulse
It was too lonely for her there,
(An uninspired line by anyone’s standard)
And too wild,
(This is unlikely to have applied to any part of New England that Frost was actually acquainted with. There were too many neighbors in Thoreau’s day. The first trochaic line—the first two—start with promotions.)
And since there were but two of them,
(Someone will have to tell me—is this use of “but” New England just-plain-folks-talk or Poetic Diction? “since” rather than “as” is, at least, common.)
And no child,
(This line alone would be enough to guarantee this poem would be rejected by any Formalist journal-- let alone a Mainstream publication. Kids, don’t try this in the XXIst Century!)
And work was little in the house,
(This must either an inversion, or some more of Frost’s Pre-School expression...hey, you come too!)
She was free,
And followed where he furrowed field,
(“President Proposes Project for Portland”)
Or felled tree.
(The third of three entirely idiotic inversions-- well not inversions, exactly, but "poesy". BTW, is “or” supposed to take a stronger stress than “felled”? I suppose it could...but this is just the kind of metrical insensitivity that Pound complained of, re—infelicities.)
She rested on a log and tossed
(The set-up for a very unconvincing enjambment.)
The fresh chips,
(The metrical expectation here has you stressing “The”...that’s ‘cause Frost is a GENIUS.)
With a song only to herself
(The purpose of the clunky reversed foot here is to disguise the fact that, on any natural reading, this line is short a stress. Correction-- the promoted "to" is the missing stress...hard to keep up with genius! I don't know about you, but I stutter saying it with four stresses, and am more inclined to elide the "ly"...leaving only three stresses.)
On her lips.
(This enjambment, while not as awkward as the previous, is nathless a flat-tire-- they all are.)
And once she went to break a bough
Of black alder.
(Here’s an opportunity to stress “of” over “black”—O, the joys of reading a GENIUS—important information, though...she should have fetched a calf. I think he should have used another tree.)
She strayed so far she scarcely heard
When he called her —
(Frost is presently going to “push the envelope” with a four-syllable word—not even the name of a state!—so I won’t comment on these ugly little words, unimaginatively put together. Tim Murphy, note the two-part rhyme.)
And didn’t answer — didn’t speak —
Or return.
She stood, and then she ran and hid
In the fern.
(Have I commented yet?...this guy only has to rhyme on every other line, and he makes it look like hard work.)
He never found her, though he looked
Everywhere,
(Now I don’t know whether she’s dead or—heavens—divorced…but it stretches credulity that he didn’t find her sooner or later, dead or alive—did he check New Orleans?)
And he asked at her mother’s house
(Another line short a stress…I know, ‘cause he’s a GENIUS. Either that, or Frost is tossing stress around like a drunken bohunk laying brick. Mezey might think this is a perfectly natural Tetrameter…in a manner of speaking, it is natural.)
Was she there.
(Punctuation on this deathless prose?…ah Hell! who cares? In Hollywood they give booby-prize awards for scripts as poorly-written as this.)
Sudden and swift and light as that
The ties gave,
(The only really good line. This time you can’t stress “the”, so the tag is “loosely iambic”, ie. Free Verse—Bob’s playing tennis without the net.)
And he learned of finalities
(I suppose the awkward promotion at the end of this line is a sorry pun on the previous “ties”. You have to drop a brick on "and" to get four stresses-- or..."And HE learned OF"?...nah, not even Frost!)
Besides the grave.
(This is clever...no, she's not dead. But, this usage of "besides" sounds...well, childish.)
Excepting the ham-fisted alliteration (licking wool?), the poem contains no internal music, and rhythmically chugs (and falters) along like the Little Engine That Could. There is no arresting imagery, and no remarkable narrative detail. The point eludes me—I don’t feel like I know any more about people who take to isolated living, people who don’t, or human nature generally.
[This message has been edited by MacArthur (edited May 02, 2001).]
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