Today I visited Robert Frost's home in Vermont. Its now a rather sterile museum. My thoughts follow ... Trying to keep, out of respect for him, to Frost's rhyme and meter.

A View of Frost

I stopped by Frost's farm house today
To see what that old house would say
About a poet long revered
Who owned this lonely bit of clay

Trimmed and cut the yard stood bare
Of old and rusted farming gear
No hoe nor rake or plow was seen
A Sharon France not a Rockwell scene

Old Frost must feel quite annoyed
To see his workplace so employed
His home was ever a working farm
He his family and friends enjoyed

Now a shrine stark and cold
No laughing children or friendly soul
No normalcy of cluttered desk
Just detritus of a broken mold

Behind a sturdy Vermont barn
A pile of rocks and path well worn
Testify to his farmer's work
Each Spring's fresh crop of Frost heaved stones

Now that is where his heart is seen
Not in some shrine and postcard scene
But a pile of stones cold and hard
He put there one by one unseen

Poetry by josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2013-10-05 at 22:25

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ngaio Beck
Excellent.(The Moving Finger Writes)

Well writtwn, like it!

Well written and spot on. There really is something very sad about the stillness of a farm without sounds and smells and movement, not matter how historical. The place meant something to Frost, and we really can't know what it meant by looking at the place itself, only by reading and guessing. Still, pilgrimages serve a purpose, and I'm glad for you that you got to see it.

Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Well said, Joe. I think that the old guy would have agreed.

A wonderful homage Joe, and a pilgrimage I would love to make though now I think I too would be saddened by it. I love the conclusion you come to and suspect Frost would too, remembering how "we had to use magic to make them balance." The magic is still there in his poems.