From Delight to Wisdom:
Frost’s Poetic Theory or Poetic Structure?
Tung Chung-Hsuan
文史學報第二十三期
國立中興大學文學院文史學報編輯委員會主編
國立中興大學教務處出版組印
中華民國八十二年三月
From Delight to Wisdom:
Frost’s Poetic Theory or Poetic Structure?
It is well known that Robert Frost, in a foreword to his Collected Poems (1939),
wrote: a poem “begins in delight and ends in wisdom.”1 But what does this terse
statement mean? Does it imply a pragmatic or expressive theory of poetry? Or
does it refer to a structural principle demonstrable by his poems?
The terms delight and wisdom lead us automatically to think of Horace’s
statement that the aim of the poet is “either to benefic, or to make his words at once
please and give lessons of life” (73). And, judging from his poetic theory and
practice, Frost does have his pragmatic considerations of poetry. His emphasizing
the importance of form --which refers to a composite of such things as “stanzaic
pattern; rhythm and rhyme relationships; balance and equilibrium of structure;
controlled unbalance; relation of emotion to emotion, thought to thought, image to
metaphor, specific to general, trivial to significant, transient to permanent” (Isaacs 73);
and other heterogeneous elements capable of blending into a single autonomous
unit--and his defining poetry as “a clarification of reality” (Isaacs 64) show that Frost
strives both to delight and instruct by his poetry. That is why he says, “In making a
poem, one has no right to think of anything but subject matter, and after making it, no
right to boast of anything but form.”2
The fact that Frost will not sacrifice form for content or vice versa is again
testified in his aiming to make a new sort of “music” in his poetry which he
ambiguously calls “the sound of sense” (a term necessarily reminds one of Pope’s line:
“The sound must seem an echo to the sense.”). According to William H. Pritchard,
the phrase “the sound of sense” has two meanings:
The phrase may accommodate either an underlining of “sound”
or of “sense,” thereby setting up a playful shuttling between the
poem as communicating something, some grain of wisdom or
truth about the world (the sound of sense) and the poem as
wholly embodying that truth through its particular music, so
that one is mainly aware of something heard (the sound of
sense). (77)
These two meanings, in fact, go to affirm that Frost does claim for poetry a double
function: the Horatian idea of delighting and teaching at the same time.
However, if we probe deeper into Frost’s statement that “A poem begins in
delight and ends in wisdom,” we find the assertion is more an expressive than a
pragmatic theory of poetry. It is, to be sure, a description of his own concept of the
creative process. As Lawrance Thompson has pointed out, Frost has said again and
again that there is a striking analogy between the course of a true poem and of a true
love. Each begins as an impulse, a disturbing excitement, and each ends as an
understanding:
No one can really hold that the ecstasy should be static and stand
still in one place. It begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it
assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of
lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life—not necessarily a
great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a
momentary stay against confusion. It has denouement. It has an
outcome that though unforeseen was predestined from the first
image of the original mood. (quoted in Thompson 21)
But why should this poetic beginning be a sort of delight rather than pain? Frost
once said this, too: “A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a home-sickness or a
love-sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment.
A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has
found the words.”3 So, it is clear that the delight stems from the moment of finding
the thought for the emotion or finding the words for the thought. The pleasure of
finding a thought is implied in this other famous statement of Frost’s: “For me the
initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn’t know I knew.”4
And the pleasure of finding the words should be extended to cover the poet’s pleasure
in discovering images, metaphors, and other technical matters constitutive of “form.”
Based on this expressive theory, Thompson asserts that Frost’s creative process
involves two kinds of recognition: “The first may occur when some experience in the
present inspires an emotional recognition that is more a matter of sense impression
than of clear mental perception” (22). (Is this indeed the stage correspondent to
Wordsworth’s “spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings”?) “The second occurs
when the emotional pleasure is derived from the sudden mental perception of a
thought which comes into sharp focus through the discovery and recognition of a
particularly apt correspondence or analogy” (24).
Thus, Thompson sees two basic
approaches of creating poetry in Frost:
The first begins as an emotional response which gradually finds its
resolution in a thought metaphorically expressed; the second begins
with the perception of the metaphor, and the rational focus is so
pleasurable in its sudden discovery that it produces an emotional
afterglow. The first leads the poet to venture into the writing of the
poem as an act of faith, without foreseeing the outcome; the second
leads the poet to give shape and weight to a rational correspondence
which has been perceived clearly before he begins the writing of the
poem. (24)
It follows, then, that “A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom” is indeed
no more descriptive of a poet’s pragmatic concern with the functions of poetry than of
his creative process. Now, when we examine Frost’s poems, can we find traces of
this process hidden behind the products?
Interestingly enough, a good number of Frost’s best poems seem to demonstrate
this from-delight-to-wisdom pattern. Take his most famous poem “Stopping by
Woods on a Snowy Evening” for example. It begins with the meditative speaker’s
description of a little dramatic scene which has prompted him into deep thought, and
it ends with his symbolic understanding that
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
To be sure, the three stanzas prior to the last concluding stanza do not in any obvious
manner manifest the speaker’s being delighted in the presence of the scene. If there
is any delight, it is the author’s and the reader’s. The author is delighted to have
found some symbolic meaning in the common scene, and he is delighted to be able to
put his finding in words pleasurable to the reader. On the other hand, the reader is
first pleased with the beauty that goes with the verse form and its presented details,
and then pleased with the suggestive ending stanza which represents a sort of insight
into life.
Philip L. Gerber points out that for Frost the essential poem arrives in a
homogeneous trinity of three parts: the point or idea, the details, and the technique
(92). The poet is delighted to get the point or idea, and he is equally delighted to
find the details and the technique to present the point or idea. So the ultimate end of
poetry is wisdom rather than delight. Frost simply agrees with Emerson that “it is
not meters, but a meter-making argument that makes a poem,” and that “the thought
and the form are equal in the order of time, but in the order of genesis the thought is
prior to the form” (33). It is only that in writing many of his best poems Frost is
evidently choosing to so arrange his details and so use his technique that the point or
idea is not revealed until the end of the poem. “The Road Not Taken”—another
famous poem of his—for instance, gains its significant weight also in the last lines:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
In Robert E. Spiller and others’ Literary History of the United States, Frost is
said to be “a metaphysical poet in the tradition of Emerson and Emily Dickinson, with
all that term implies of the poet’s desire to go beyond the seen to the unseen, but his
imagery is less involved than that of the older metaphysicals” (1191). And it is
further explained thus: “Most of his poems fix on the mysterious moment when the
two planes cross. Hasty readers, noting only the quiet beginning in what appears to
be a simple anecdote about a person, event, or object commonly enough observed, fail
to see how the commonness gradually disappears or, better, how it becomes
transfigured” (1191). Therefore, it is concluded that “The most dramatic moment in
a Frost poem is the kind of anagnorisis or denouement when the mundane fact
achieves its full metaphysical significance” (1191). The “quiet beginning” is really
insipid rather than delightful for the “hasty readers” at times. But for the poet it is
the necessary preparation for the delightful moment of anagnorisis. In truth, it is
often a vicarious description, using the speaker (or, rather, meditator) as the poet’s
mouthpiece, of how the joy of finding the “full metaphysical significance” in the
“mundane fact” is achieved. In the light of this, a Frost poem seems to be a
psychological record of how a “truth” is revealed to the poet.
It is generally understood that Frost has been greatly influenced by Wordsworth
although he would not claim himself, nor would we claim him, to be simply the great
English Romantic’s heir, given their mutual attraction to nature, pastoral, and ballad.
In an essay Sydney Lea has detected the tendency that Wordsworth’s pastoral
“sublime” has dropped down to Frost’s common “rigmarole” in comparing the two
poets.5 I grant that Frost’s language is at times more prosaic and hence more like a
rigmarole. But I must hold that Frost is no less sublime than Wordsworth in trying to
elevate the vulgar ego into the high realm of truth from the routine everyday life.
Just read this poem:
A head thrusts in as for the view,
But where it is it thrusts in from
Or what it is it thrusts into
By that Cyb’laean avenue,
And what can of its coming come,
And whither it will be withdrawn,
And what take hence or leave behind,
These things the mind has pondered on
A moment and still asking gone.
Strange apparition of the mind!
But the impervious geode
Was entered, and its inner crust
Of crystals with a ray cathode
At every point and facet glowed
In answer to the mental thrust.
Eyes seeking the response of eyes
Bring out the stars, bring out the flowers,
Thus concentrating earth and skies
So none need be afraid of size.
All revelation has been ours.
Yes, all revelation has been ours. But Wordsworth’s phrasing is: “how exquisitely the
external world is fitted to the mind.”6
power.
Both poets’ real concern is with our mental
For me Frost differs from Wordsworth not in their aim, but in their method.
They both aim to present “truth.” But while Wordsworth employs the form of
“lyrical ballad,” Frost adopts largely the technique of the so-called “conversation
piece,” which Coleridge is better at than his poet-friend. The “conversation poems,”
as exemplified by Coleridge’s “Frost at Midnight,” “The Nightingale,” “This
Lime-Tree Bower My Prison,” etc., are poems in which the poet pretends to be talking
to someone familiar to him (his son, friend, etc.).
Such poems have a typical
structure. According to John Colmer:
The structure consists of three main sections: an introduction in
which the poet’s situation is established and the atmosphere
miraculously evoked through a few simple details; a central
meditative section in which the subtlest modulations of thought and
emotion are exactly communicated; lastly, a return to the original
situation, but with “new acquist of true experience.” And in such a
poem, although the diction is conversational, “the effect is not that of
direct address but rather of overhearing a quiet soliloquy.” (26-27)
Now, a Frost poem like “Birches” or “The Wood-Pile” is, of course, not
conversational in the sense that Coleridge’s “The Eolian Harp” or “Frost at Midnight”
is. Frost’s poems are not directly addressed to any particular individual, but
Coleridge’s are (to Sara Fricker and Hartley respectively in the two poems we have
just mentioned above). But in reading “Birches” or “The Wood-Pile,” we feel the
speaker therein seems to be talking to someone, too. Anyway, the tone and the
speech style of both Coleridge’s and Frost’s poems are really conversational although
the effect is indeed that of an overheard quiet soliloquy.
Again, each of Coleridge’s two examples of “conversation poems” does consist
of the three main sections as Colmer has pointed out. “The Eolian Harp” begins and
ends with a description of the situation Sara is in (the cot, etc.); “Frost at Midnight”
begins and ends with mentioning the frost. And in the central section the
emotionally aroused speaker (or poet) carries on an insightful meditation based on the
scene observed and comes up with a sudden realization of truth: that “The lovely
shapes and sounds intelligible” are God’s “eternal language” with which he “doth
teach Himself in all, and all things in himself”; and that there is “the one Life within
us and abroad”: “all of animated nature be but organic Harps diversely framed.” In
comparison, we find Frost’s “Birches” and “The Wood-Pile” do not begin and end
with the same described or mentioned scene. But each does begin with a scene
description which then gives rise to the insightful meditation. It is only that in
Frost’s poem the speaker seldom gives lyrical outcries and the truth arrived at is
seldom uttered clearly but hinted at by understatement: “One could do worse than be a
swinger of birches”; the wood-pile is left “far from a useful fireplace to warm the
frozen swamp as best it could with the slow smokeless burning of decay.” So, we
see that Frost is basically following the aim of a “conversation piece,” which is to
reveal truth through describing an observed scene.
But while he keeps the
conversational tone and style, he never adopts the structure of a typical “conversation
poem.”
Mention may be made here of the dramatic monologue, a poetic genre
sometimes not easily distinguished from the “conversation piece.” As we know, a
dramatic monologue is a poem in which there is one imaginary speaker addressing an
imaginary audience. Consequently, the speech therein is conversational, too. But
while the chief purpose of a conversation piece is to reveal general truth about our
world or life, the main target of a dramatic monologue is to reveal, in dramatic irony,
things about the imaginary speaker and/or the people spoken to or of: the former is
oriented towards theme, the latter towards character. Thus, after reading Coleridge’s
“This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison,” we gain chiefly the lesson that “Nature ne’er
deserts the wise and pure” or “No sound is dissonant which tells of life,” whereas
after reading Browning’s “My Last Duchess,” we mainly learn a lot about the Duke’s
boastful, arrogant, cruel and narrow-minded character and also the characters of the
innocent and tender-hearted Duchess and the obedient emissary.
Another thing sets off a dramatic monologue in contrast to a conversation piece.
In a dramatic monologue like Browning’s, the imaginary speaker is always
identifiable as somebody other than the poet (Duke of Ferrara, a monk in the Spanish
Cloister, etc.). But in a conversation poem like Coleridge’s, the speaker is often
presumably the poet himself. However, in both types of poetry the person addressed
can be identified, although in the former type the addressee (e.g., the emissary in “My
Last Duchess”) is often not a named intimate person while in the latter type the
addressee (e.g., Sara in “The Eolian Harp”) is often a named close friend.
Now, it occurs to me that Frost’s conversational verse seems to be a third type
developed out of the “conversation piece” and the dramatic monologue. It has the
truth-revealing purpose of a conversation piece. Yet, the speaker in it cannot be
identified with the poet but must be someone else, who experiences something as he
describes in the poem. And this third person is speaking to an unidentified audience,
who may therefore be easily taken to be the reader of the poem. Nevertheless, the
tone of the speech is indeed conversational. And one may feel that the speech style
is not so elevated as that of Coleridge’s conversation poems; it tends more to the
vulgar and yet realistic speech of Browning’s dramatic monologues.
Take the poem “After Apple-Picking” for example. The entire poem goes thus:
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What from my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
Here indeed is a conscientious apple-picker’s inner voice. But this voice is so
verbalized that it reads as if the apple-picker is talking to an unspecified person about
his task of apple-picking and his concern about his after-task rest and sleep. The
entire poem with its details goes to suggest, of course, that the “human sleep” is not
like a woodchuck’s “long sleep” in that it may be “troubled” in the form of a dream
(in which one’s conscience emerges) over the pre-sleep task. So the center of this
“conversational monologue,” so to speak, is this sleep theme. Although this
apple-picker’s conscientious character is also revealed in his speech, it is obviously
not the poet’s concern, nor the reader’s focus of attention.
After an examination of Frost’s Complete Poems, Elizabeth Isaacs says, “he has
used mainly three genres: lyric, dramatic narrative, and satire (a term which is used
here to include fable, parable, epigram, poetic essay, sermon, and oration)” (83). In
reality, all the three main genres of Frost’s are tinged more or less with the
characteristics of what I may call “conversational monologue.” The following poem
(“Desert Places”) is assigned to the category of “lyric.”
But is it purely lyrical?
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
The woods around it have it—it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.
And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less—
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
I would say the tone is more meditative than lyrical, and the meditation with its quiet
beginning of scene description just goes to end in the revelatory truth that there are
desert places in one’s own mind as well as in the outer space. This
revelation-centered structure is the structure of a “conversation piece,” and the poem
does sound like a conversation between the meditative speaker (who is not necessarily
the poet) and an unidentified person, who, just like the reader, is just listening for the
time being. But since this conversation is in actuality an interior monologue (hence
lyrical), I deem it not unseemly to call it, paradoxically, a “conversational
monologue.”
In a dramatic narrative like “The Death of the Hired Man,” to be sure, the
narrator’s lyrical meditation is mostly replaced by the characters’ dialogues. In the
present example, for instance, the narrator functions chiefly to introduce the
characters (Mary, and her husband Warren, and the hired man Silas), describe the
situation they are in, and tell the sequence of events—just like a narrator in any story.
But the narrator also speaks in a plain conversational language. See, for example,
these beginning lines of the poem:
Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table
Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step,
She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage
To meet him in the doorway with the news
And put him on his guard. “Silas is back.”
And conversational language, of course, is used in the dialogues of the characters.
Yet, all the language is again truth-centered. Here the truth is: “Home is the place
where, when you have to go there,/ They have to take you in.” The hired man’s
coming back to die in his former employer’s house is to tell us this humanitarian
definition of home.
When we come to a satire like “Departmental,” we find it also follows the basic
pattern of scene description plus truth revelation, and the language is again
conversational. It begins with describing “An ant on the tablecloth/Ran into a
dormant moth/Of many times his size.” Then it tells how different ants react
differently to what they meet and often pass with unconcern when it is not connected
with their assigned tasks. So, finally the poem ends with the truthful comment: “It
couldn’t be called ungentle./ But how thoroughly departmental.”
I will not bother to discuss in detail all Frost poems that are capable of being
analyzed in terms of “conversational monologue.” Suffice it that such other
frequently-read poems as “Mending Wall,” “Hyla Brook,” “Out, Out,” “Two Look at
Two,” “The Need of Being Versed in Country Things,” “Two Tramps in Mud Time,”
“Design,” and “Closed for Good” are really “conversational monologues” in like
manner, though their verse forms vary from one poem to another.
Some good poems of Frost’s are, of course, not written in the manner of
“conversational monologues.” “Tree at My Window,” for instance, is a speech
addressed to the tree at the speaker’s window, not a talk to an unspecified listener.
“Fire and Ice” is just a simple assertion without any foregoing description of an outer
scene or account of an anecdote. And “A Missive Missile” has a scene and an
anecdote, but it is something bordering on a fantasy, not a real situation. However,
all these poems have something in common with all the other poems mentioned or
discussed above, that is, each of them bears a truth stated or suggested, thus in
conformity with Frost’s emphasis on wisdom as the essence of poetry.
Once, referring to Pound’s review in Poetry, Frost wrote to Thomas Mosher, a
Maine book collector and publisher: “You are not going to make the mistake that
Pound makes of assuming that my simplicity is that of the untutored child. I am not
undesigning” (Pritchard 69-70). In fact, Frost exerts himself so much in designing
his poems that he has really brought forth a “new free form” combining the
advantages of the traditional verse forms and the modern “free verse,” while avoiding
the disadvantages of the modernists’ experimental forms (Gerber 766ff.). As a result,
his poetry is often really fraught with the “sound of sense” for the “ear readers,” if not
the “shape of sense” for the “eye readers.” And that is indeed one great source of
delight he can render to his readers. However, do his good poems really all follow
the from-delight-to-wisdom pattern?
Regarding Frost’s conversational style, Yvor Winters thus comments: “…it has
helped to make him seem ‘natural.’ But poetry is not conversation, and I see no reason
why poetry should be called upon to imitate conversation. Conversation is the most
careless and formless of human utterance; it is spontaneous and unrevised, and its
vocabulary is commonly limited” (59).
Perhaps Winters does not understand that
Frost’s conversational style is not wholly careless and formless like an ordinary
conversation. Perhaps he cannot appreciate his technique of “conversational
monologue” as explored in this paper. But one must agree that before one comes to
the meaningful revelation of insightful truth towards the end of a typical Frost poem,
one is really very liable to take the “conversational monologue” for a rigmarole worth
no more than one’s casual attention. On the part of the reader, indeed, a typical Frost
poem does not necessarily begin in delight and end in wisdom, as far as its effect is
concerned. In the concluding paragraph of his “The Figure a Poem Makes,” Frost
says: “Originality and initiative are what I ask for my country. For myself the
originality need be no more than the freshness of a poem run in the way I have
described: from delight to wisdom.” But the way from delight to wisdom is just
Frost’s genetic way of creating poetry, and perhaps his aim of writing, too. He may
wish to make it a structural principle of his poems as well. Yet, his technique, as far
as the device of “conversational monologue” is concerned, more often than not fails to
achieve his aim. One may be delighted to find wisdom in the end of his poem. But
one may not be delighted to go through a rigmarole first in order to reach a delightful
truth.
Notes
1. The foreword is an essay titled “The Figure a Poem Makes.” Quoted in
Untermeyer, ed. A Concise Treasury of Great Poems, p. 440.
2.
“The Poetry of Amy Lowell,” Christian Science Monitor, (May 16, 1925), p. 31.
Quoted in Isaacs, p. 65.
3. This is printed on the dust jacket of West-running Brook (New York: Holt,
Rinehart & Winston, Inc., 1929).
4. See “The Figure a Poem Makes.” Quoted in Thompson, p. 21.
5. See his “From Sublime to Rigamarole: Relations of Frost to Wordsworth,” in
Bloom, pp. 85-110.
6. Prospectus to The Recluse, II. 66-68.
Works Consulted
Bloom, Harold, ed.
Robert Frost: Modern Critical Views.
New York: Chelsea
House Publishers, 1986.
Colmer, John.
Coleridge: Selected Poems.
Cox, James M., ed.
London: Oxford UP, 1965.
Robert Frost: Twentieth-Century Views.
Englewood Cliffs, NJ:
Prentice-hall, Inc., 1962.
Emerson, Waldo. “The Poet,” in Cox 32-34.
Frost, Robert. “The Figure a Poem Makes.” Preface to Collected Poems.
New
York: Henry Holt & Co., 1939.
Gerber, Philip.
Horace.
Robert Frost.
Revised edition.
Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1982
“The Art of Poetry.” Critical Theory Since Plato.
Ed. Hazard Adams.
New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1971. 68-75.
Isaacs, Elizabeth.
An Introduction to Robert Frost.
New York: Haskell House,
1972.
Lea, Sydney.
“From Sublime to Rigamarole: Relations of Frost to Wordsworth,” in
Bloom, 85-110.
Pritchard, William H.
Frost: A Literary Life Reconsidered.
New York: Oxford UP,
1984.
Spiller, Robert E. et al.
Literary History of the United States. 3rd edition. New
York: The Macmillan Co., 1963.
Thompson, Lawrance.
“Robert Frost’s Theory of Poetry,” in Cox, 20-24.
Untermeyer, Louis, ed.
A Concise Treasury of Great Poems. New York: Pocket
Books, 1975.
Winters, Yvor.
“Robert Frost: or, the Spiritual Drifter as Poet,” in Cox, 58-60.