|Robert Frost Farm, Derry, New Hampshire|
Frost wrote: "Ït all started in Derry, the whole thing. . . There was something about the experience at Derry which stayed in my mind, and was tapped for poetry in the years that came after."-- Frost to Louis Mertins.
I'm looking forward to attending the second annual Frost Farm Poetry Conference this weekend in Derry, New Hampshire.
I'm fortunate to be in Timothy Steele's master class in meter.
Below is a poem Robert Frost wrote while in Derry, "Hyla Brook".
By June our brook’s run out of song and speed.
Sought for much after that, it will be found
Either to have gone groping underground
(And taken with it all the Hyla breed
That shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow)—
Or flourished and come up in jewel-weed,
Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent
Even against the way its waters went.
Its bed is left a faded paper sheet
Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat—
A brook to none but who remember long.
This as it will be seen is other far
Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song.
We love the things we love for what they are.