Robert Frost

(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963 / San Francisco)

The Birthplace - Poem by Robert Frost

Here further up the mountain slope
Than there was every any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of wall round everything,
Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
And brought our various lives to pass.
A dozen girls and boys we were.
The mountain seemed to like the stir,
And made of us a little while-
With always something in her smile.
Today she wouldn't know our name.
(No girl's, of course, has stayed the same.)
The mountain pushed us off her knees.
And now her lap is full of trees.

Topic(s) of this poem: birth


Comments about The Birthplace by Robert Frost

  • Tom Allport (12/21/2016 5:17:00 PM)

    tom allport
    somewhere to live and grow for a short while (Report) Reply

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
Read all 1 comments »



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags


Poem Submitted: Thursday, May 14, 2015



[Report Error]