Classic Love Poems
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Robert Frost (1874-1963) was an American poet, highly regarded for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech. Popular and often quoted, Frost was honored frequently during his lifetime and awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry four times. His love poem, The Silken Tent, is believed to have been written for Kathleen (Kay) Morrison, his secretary and adviser after the death of his wife. One of his finest poetry collections, A Witness Tree, for which Frost won a Pulitzer Prize in 1943, is dedicated to “K.M. for her part in it.”
Robert Frost’s wife, Elinor
Mountain Intervalby Robert Frost
Published in 1916, this collection of lyrical verse contains many of Frost’s finest and most moving poems.
1938 Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference
(Seated on porch) Bernard DeVoto,
Robert Frost, Herschel Brickell, and
Director Theodore Morrison;
(Seated on step) Kay Morrison and
Helen Everitt
More photos
an irresistible desire
to be irresistibly
desired.”
—Robert Frost
The Silken Tent
She is as in a field of silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To every thing on earth the compass round,
And only by one’s going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightlest bondage made aware.
To Earthward
Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air
That crossed me from sweet things,
The flow of—was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Down hill at dusk?
I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they’re gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.
I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.
Now no joy but lacks salt
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain
Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.
When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,
The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length.
The Hill Wife — V. The Impulse
A haunting poem about love lost
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.
on “Frost, Robert”
