The Death of Great-God Frost

An Interpretation of Robert Frost's "The Most of It"

This essay was written by

Nik Hoffmann

. We recommend you follow his work at Across The Spheres.

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“The Most of It” is one of Robert Frost’s finest poems. I’m not relying on my own judgement either, the general consensus consistently places it among his best; And this despite never reaching the popularity of something like “The Road Not Taken” or “Fire and Ice.”

“The Most of It” recounts the story of a lonely man in desperate search of love. A love, however, that far surpasses simple affection. He’s searching for love on a grander scale—a cosmic scale. The story goes that one morning, as the man is on the beach, he cries out in hopes for a voice to respond to him. Though try as he might, he never receives a real voice in return. As usual, his “answer” is only his own voice echoing back. That is, until one time, something begins to stir in the distance—across the waters. The thing starts swimming near, and as it breaches the shoreline, the man sees that it’s a buck. The appearance of this large, antlered creature impresses itself strongly on the man; And with that, he has received his answer. This is where the story ends.

Perhaps a rather underwhelming tale. Undeterred, I hope to draw out the depth and complexity of this poem in the following article. I would like to state as an antecedent, that the purpose of this article is suggestive as opposed to either comprehensive or definitive; And throughout I have sought to erect signposts leading to a destination which I have not felt fit to delineate.

Firstly, I will be presenting an explication or exegesis of the poem in question. It will be primarily an exploration into the meaning of the poem via an attempt to account for the words employed. I will be indebted to the reader if he shall lend me leniency for the unusual method and style which I have pursued.

Secondly, I will be engaging in, to some extent, a form of criticism. However, as will be seen, I have constrained its scope to conform with both my abilities and major focus. I will be providing notes (or perhaps only expressing my desire) towards a simultaneous recovery and development of poetry in America. Frost plays no small part in such an inquest.

Lastly will be a very brief collection of prosodic elements from the poem. As it would distract from the explication proper to denote them all, I have fitted them at the end as an addendum. These will likely only be of technical interest.

The construction of this article may strike the reader as strange, however, I would like to impress that the discussion of Poetry arises through the discussion of Poems. Which is not only to advance in favor of close reading, but also to posit that approaching generalities through particulars is a salutary strategy. And, it might be added, that the structure and content of this article is my attempt to practice the principles which I propound.

Without further ado, here is the poem in its entirety:

The Most Of It

He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder-broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter-love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff’s talus on the other side,
And then in the far distant water splashed,
But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush—and that was all.

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A recording of the poem read by Robert Frost:

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I. Explication

He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake."

“He thought” not “He felt”, which would be emotion or intuition; Nor “He knew” which might connote certainty. It’s “He thought”, we’re dealing with the mind. Specifically with a conception—”thought”—of the “universe”. The man exists somewhere between feeling and knowing that he “kept the universe alone”. “Kept” denotes both “tending to” and “possession of”. “Universe” informs us we are speaking on a cosmic scale; It’s larger than the alternatives of world or earth.

The protagonist thinks. This keys us in to understanding the poem psychologically. But “universe” compels us to consider his psychology with a cosmic scope. The poem’s opening gambit is “Is Man alone?” The rest of the poem provides a response to this question. I say “response” instead of “answer” because as the poem makes clear, the answer is suspended in ambiguity.

“Voice in answer” that’s what he’s looking for. He thinks he’s alone because there is no voice which responds to him; No one returns his call, No one “answer[s]” his question. “Wake” implies that whatever he’s looking for is simply sleeping. Perhaps he’s doing something wrong—maybe he hasn’t found the right way to “wake” it up. “Was but the mocking echo” his voice bounces off the “cliff across the lake” and returns to him. This response “mock[s]” him; It’s humiliating for him.

Now remember, we’re considering this poem cosmically. The protagonist is looking for something that’s not just himself—God, aliens, something—for crying out loud! But “all” that he could get, is his own “echo”. And his echo is “mocking” him. In the search for something else in the universe, coming up against the realization that you’ve only been talking to yourself is humiliating. (This, I think, is very perceptive of Frost.) It is this fact, the humiliation of the lonely universe (or what someone “thought” is a lonely universe) that the rest of the poem wishes to escape from, though it’s unclear if escape is even a possibility.

A symbolic language is becoming apparent. When we take the first four lines, and the fact that an animal comes before him in his loneliness, the structure of Genesis 2:18-19 presents itself. The protagonist is an Adam-like figure calling out on life. He is in this position as an Adam in a universe without God. Though faint, the images of Genesis are here; “tree-hidden cliff”—the cliff where the echo comes from—and “Across the lake”. He stands on the edge of the earth calling across the waters beyond the firmament—”the lake”—to the “tree-hidden cliff”. “Tree-hidden” because eating from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil has separated man from God. He stands on the “beach”—the shifting, impermanent sands—and calls out to the cliff—the solid and permanent; i.e. “God is my rock”.

On another note, notice that words and sounds are echoing in these lines. “Mocking echo”—The hard “c” sounds follow each other and echo each other. “Cliff across”—two hard “c” sounds. The following line: “boulder broken beach”—the alliterative “b” sounds echo each other. We can see how the sound supports the meaning; The word-sounds literally echo each other. Indeed, a preponderance of hard “c” sounds can be found in the first half of the poem: “kept, wake, mocking, echo, cliff, across, lake, cry, copy, counter, came, crashed.” There is a hard “c” in every line until the line “And then in the far distant water splashed”.¹

"Some morning from the boulder-broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter-love, original response."

Odd phrasing abounds in these four lines. “Some morning” not “some mornings” with the plural or “And mornings” which would feel more particular. “Some morning” gives a sense of distance, of generality. We’re talking in something of the abstract. “The boulder” instead of “a boulder” follows suit. The resulting effect is that a mythic haze is cast over this “boulder-broken beach”.

Considering the development of the symbolic language, it should not surprise us to reference Revelation 13:1 “The dragon stood on the shore of the sea. And I saw a beast coming out of the sea. It had ten horns”. The parallel is unmistakable: A figure stands on the beach and a horned beast (the buck) approaches. A clarifying note: Both the dragon and St. John stand on the edge of the sea; Which presses the question “Is the poem’s protagonist Satan or a Saint?”. More likely, he is a third thing—This Adam-like figure who stands between them; Which is to say the possibility of turning into either.

“He would cry out on life, that what it wants”—tremendously curious line. He “cry[s] out on life” not “out to life” but “out on life”. It’s as if his voice runs atop the waters—his cry gliding across the surface. An interesting, though contorted reflection of the Spirit of God hovering over the waters. Also, if the poem said “to life” or “at life” it might suggest the possibility of reception. “On life” is rather “un-personed”—life itself has no implied faculty of reception. “It wants”—what is the “it”? It’s life itself. The protagonist—who possesses life—calls out on life because “life wants”. Life desires something. He is life, calling on life, because life “desires” love, in hopes that he’ll get an answer from life. Everything is just life; It’s all atomistic—no form, just undifferentiated life, just like the lake he’s crying on the edge of. He’s on the edge of sense, of form—on the shifting sands—looking for a response.

The intense confusion about life is a pretty horrific situation for the protagonist. Life seems to both be incapable of responding to him and capable of desiring, i.e. “wants”. Perhaps the life inside of him is different than the life outside of him? It’s not clear. “Is not it’s own love back…” the cries that he makes are an expression of his love, but notice the distance between the protagonist and his love. His love is not said to be his love. He’s not the possessor of the love, here. The love belongs to life itself. It’s almost as if he can’t admit that he wants the love back. It’s life that wants the love back.

It should be noted at this point that the form of this poem reflects the meaning. Particularly, the distance between the man and his love. The poem is written in the third-person instead of the first-person; “He thought” instead of “I thought”. The poem could’ve been written in the first-person, but it’s not. Frost might’ve written “I thought” and we would’ve spoken the poem in our own voice (or closer to our own voice). As it is, we’re onlookers. There’s increased distance between us (and Frost) and the protagonist of the poem. Perhaps Frost wished to distance himself from the man just as the man distances himself from the desire of “counter-love.”

“Copy speech / But counter-love, original response.” The mimicking “copy speech” of his own echo does not satisfy him. “Counter-love” he needs life to produce a counter force of love—something to press back against him. “Original response.” “Original” as in not originating in him. For something to be truly original, it must come from outside himself. “Response” is a very important word here. It’s the only word in the poem which breaks the rhyme.

“Response” simply cannot be said to rhyme with “wants”. Especially within the context of the poem where no near-rhymes are employed. It prominently—“powerfully”, like the buck—stands out. He’s looking for a “response”. The word immediately denotes a verbal response, but “response” can also be used like “He is responding well to the medicine”. “Response” has complexity, in that it can mean both a verbal answer and a simple reaction. The rest of the poem hangs on this ambiguity. Life can respond to him but what is the character of this response? We will see that the word “response” translates the protagonist’s original desire for “voice” and not “copy-speech” into a non-verbal answer—the appearance of the buck.

 "And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff’s talus on the other side,
And then in the far distant water splashed," 

At this point, I’d like to attempt to retain focus lest the reader be led astray. The protagonist is dealing with the fundamental problem of meaning and cosmic loneliness. And to put it precisely, his need for love from something outside himself. The following lines in the poem provide an answer for this problem, but we, as readers, must be sure we understand the question. The question before us is “Is there any possibility of love in the universe?” Quite the serious concern. The answer the poem gives is no frivolous thing, despite what it may seem.

Now the poem would appear to be fairly straightforward. The man calls out for love and never gets a response. Except for the appearance of a buck, which crosses the lake and lands near him. There is no answer from the universe, except for this animal, so take that for what you will, because that’s all you’re gonna get. However, appearances are deceiving and this poem has a complication. That complication is the word “embodiment”.

Before we get to “embodiment” however, we need to deal with the previous line. “And nothing ever came...” besides the readily apparent surface meaning of the line, only one other point needs mention. It seems that the scenario thus described in the poem has occurred more than once. The poem gives the impression that the man cried out from the beach repetitively. This is due to the feeling of generality given by the first several lines. As was remarked on earlier, this does not feel like a particular event at a particular time. When it says “nothing ever came” it means nothing. Nothing ever changed. Nothing ever came of it, both on the universe’s part and his. His lack of a response seemingly never stopped him crying out for one. To put a fine point on it, this lack of a response was not strong enough to overcome his unceasing desire for “counter-love”.

“Unless it was the embodiment that crashed” alright, we know the buck is doing the crashing. So “embodiment” refers to the buck. The embodiment of what? That’s the question. What does it mean for the buck to be an embodiment? Well, I think the buck is the embodiment of his voice. Remember the line “From some tree-hidden cliff”? The man’s voice echoes by bouncing off the cliff-side and returning to him. His voice seems to “crash” into the cliff and take a bodily form. The buck, though it is described in a very corporeal and tactile sense, exists somewhere between being and non-being. It’s existence is shadowy and elusive. This all, very certainly calls into question what the man is exactly experiencing. Is the buck even real or a mere figment?

“In the cliff’s talus on the other side” talus, here, would be a type of rocky incline serving as an intermediary between the cliff proper and the water. It’s roughly equivalent to the beach where the man stands. Both the beach and the talus are an “in-between”—a threshold. “In the far distant water splashed” we have a type of birth—a type of baptism. Remember, it has not been revealed yet what this thing is. This thing is only known by sound—“crashed” and “splashed”.1

“Far distant water splashed” the buck comes from an unseen place that’s “far distant”. Remember that the man is an Adamic figure. Contrast the distant and removed origin of this buck with the close and intimate creation of Eve. Now, what must be acknowledged about this poem is the distinct absence of Eve. If we recall Genesis, God brings the animals before Adam, however the animals are not enough because none of them are a true “helper” to him. Due to this lack in nature, God creates Eve out of Adam. Hopefully the parallels are clear. In the ancient story, nature does not adequately satisfy man, which occasions Eve’s creation. However in the modern story, man’s satisfaction is unclear. While I think the poem makes clear the protagonist's displeasure, his ultimate satisfaction with nature remains an open question.

Genesis says nature is inadequate to satisfy man and then provides an answer—a new creation, Eve. This new creation is missing in the poem, there is no answer to the central problem. Except for one thing—the poem itself. The closest object to approximate an Eve for the Adam in this poem, is the poem. The poem is an intimate creation that comes from the author himself. The poem is Adam’s rib. It’s built out of himself.²

As remarked on earlier, the poem is written in the third-person, And it seems that the speaker deeply identifies with the protagonist. Frost, though distancing himself and the reader from the protagonist, is also performing another role. The author becomes his own God. If in the poem there is no God to perform the “additional” new creation of Eve, the author takes the duty upon himself to fashion this new creation. Frost becomes his own God, and creates his own Eve—his poem. This is a totally enclosed circuit. The author becomes completely self-inventive. The protagonist is invented, nature is invented, and the poem is invented. The author assigns meaning to all these things. The author, needing the “original response” of “counter-love”—his very own Eve—creates it.

At this point, where are we at? Who’s the author? Who’s the protagonist? What is the poem? Is the thing we’re reading the poem? Or is the poem itself the actual poem? Who’s Frost? I don’t think we know. We, the reader, are on the shifting sands of the boulder-broken beach. We recite, with Frost, his poem and call out for an answer. The only answer received is the word of the poem itself. Frost is our “counter-love”; Not only has Frost become his own God, he’s our God too.

But under Great-God Frost, distinctions break down. Categories dissolve. The New England shoreline is existential. What exists? There’s no telling. Except Frost, he’ll tell us. But we know what he has to say—his final haunting line “and that was all”. The buck, the poem, and Frost—that’s all there is. Are we satisfied with this? I’m not. Is Frost even satisfied with this? I don’t think so.

A paradox occurs in the poem and with the poem. In an attempt to transcend ourselves—to determine ourselves—we only further trap ourselves. In an attempt to create meaning we lose meaning. The origin of “counter-love” is, and always was, gift—not craft. But we can try to craft a “counter-love”. The poem, to an extent, does so. Enter: The Beast.

"But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush—and that was all." 

“Allowed” is an odd word here. What is allowing the stag to swim? Is the stag not operating on its own will? Apparently, not quite. As we have seen, this poem is haunted by a specter that seems to be arranging things—causing things. Once again, everything is unclear and cast into doubt. “Instead of proving human”—here’s something that is clarified. The protagonist’s desire is really for another human being. At least that’s what he is expecting.

“As a great buck it powerfully appeared” for further proof that the buck in this poem is not exactly real, notice the words “as”, “it” and “appeared”. What is the “it”? It’s not the buck. This is the same question we asked about “embodiment”. It could be his voice, his desire or his will. But what’s apparent is that, despite the appearances of being a nature poem, something greater is going on. We’re not merely examining if nature can provide belonging for man. We’re exploring whether or not man creates nature. And if he does, is it satisfactory?

“Powerfully” is a strange word-choice. It’s sort of amateurish and awkward. But we know better than to simply write it off. Some context may be provided if we again reference Revelation 13, “and power was given him over all kindreds, and tongues, and nations.”—This being a description of the beast which emerges from the sea. The following four lines in the poem will show that the buck seems very, very real. The man experiences the arrival of the buck in quite physical terms, and in that sense the buck “powerfully appears”. It exercises its power over him. Power to do what? It’s unknown. If Revelation gives us a lead to work with, it suggests that the power is practically limitless.

“Crumpled” communicates the strength of the buck—it easily crumples up water like paper. (Paper—the thing the poem itself is written on.) “Landed pouring” not dripping, but pouring like a waterfall—like the buck is gargantuan. Lots of auditory words here—“crumpled, pouring, stumbled, forced the underbrush”. We can hear the water pouring, the rocks as it stumbles and the underbrush rustling³. It’s all very tactile, sensual and real. I think the final four lines all amount to one thing: The intensely real perception of unreal things. One reading of this poem suggests that man assigns value and emotion to nature. Regardless of the truth of this statement, I believe this poem asserts that assigned meaning feels real. Despite the possibility that the poem is a counterfeit Eve and the buck is a counterfeit of a real animal, the counterfeit may seem so real, that it serves as the genuine article.

“And that was all”—here we are, the final word, the final doubt. From the first time I read this poem, I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that upon the recitation of these words, the buck disappears. That in the end, the buck just vanishes, and probably, never was really there. Regardless, the entire poem teeters on these four words. After everything, the grand summation is: “and that was all”. Now, this poem has been framed in a number of ways, almost always examining whether or not nature is “enough” for man. “And that was all” provides no definitive answer, and invites the reader to provide his own conclusion. This phenomenon, that of providing your own answer, has been seen as the point of this poem. Our relationship to nature is like our relationship to this poem—we make of it what we want. I think it’s fair to allege that, this indeed, is what Frost is selling. The question remains: Are we buying it?

Intended or not, there are cracks in the solidity of this poem. Frost portrays human desire for love too well, and provides an answer too poor to satisfy the reader. To be satisfied with this poem is to misread it. Which is why some have made themselves comfortable to be left in a state of doubt, and therefore decide that Frost’s doubt is revealing and profound. Now, I don’t believe that it can be said that doubt is profound. Doubt is profundity only when wisdom is disbelief. I do not think that it is fair to the poem itself to allow it to subsist in doubt. It insists, though gently, on an answer. The cosmic symbolism percolating beneath the surface suggests there is more than simply Nature; As does the the continued persistence of the man’s love; And so does the utter disappointment of the words “and that was all”.

II. The Death of Great-God Frost

Robert Frost has left an indelible mark on American poetry. He makes quite the figurehead for American verse, and has represented Her powerfully, it might be said. For better or worse, he is our Old Man Frost—our Father Frost. He taught us a great deal about America and what it means to be American, be that as it may. His casual, conversationalist style reflects a rather American lack of pretense and the easy simplicity of manner in which we conduct ourselves. Counter-wise, his trepidation betrays American appearances and mournfully discloses the discontent that haunts the American soul. Frost blows the bitter winds of doubt and dread, but he gives us an out; We can always console ourselves by saying “Don’t worry, it’s just the wind”. There’s no boogeyman, no ghostly haunt. It’s all natural. Horror is natural; Death is natural. It’s all natural, just like the woods on a snowy evening.

In The Most of It, Frost shows the Beast approaching. He knew that something very un-natural was coming. He could feel the encroaching power of something beyond him, but he didn’t deal with it. Which suggests the question: Is “and that was all” a disappointment or a relief? It’s easy to read the poem as either a nihilistic, depressive statement, or as a pragmatic challenge to “make the most of it”. But was Frost relieved at “that was all”? If it’s all just the force of Nature, he could handle that; But if it was greater than that, what then? Is Frost’s poetry ready to tackle such a scenario? To be fair to Frost, at times the poems are indeed capable; But rarely is he committed. However, that is what the Beast requires of us—commitment; Or better said, Faith. Faithless Frost is insufficient.

My main concern is not to produce a critical judgement on Frost. Instead I wish to propose that we, as American poets, should absorb him and surpass his limitations. We must recover Frost and let him die his death. I think we’ve been avoiding the death of Frost—that is to say 20th century America—for long enough. The arts have amused themselves in distraction. Whether it be spectacle, ecstasy, adolescence, blasphemy or sheer volume—we’ve indulged. We have eaten every last morsel in the pantry, even the rats, to cover-up the fact that we are starving.

Frost has left us a good legacy. He maintained the order of formal verse in a time that fought against such inclinations. His good poems are very good, and he was an excellent practitioner of his craft. His verse is simple and easy to learn from. I think he can be an approachable teacher; And importantly, he doesn’t traffic in humiliation like modern poets. Despite his shortcomings, he retains some dignity. Enough dignity that we aren’t subjected to the shame of poetic excrement. He lowered his language, but never so low as the gutter (or the collegiate). He’s not one to rub our faces in it. At his best, he remains sensitive to human weakness and death, even if his cosmic cynicism lurks in the shadows.

To be frank, that my point may not be lost, language in America has continually depreciated since Frost left us. A linguistic archaeological expedition is now in order. In the past, a recovery mission would have sufficed; But now that our language is mostly dead, we are going to have to dig up some bones. To be clear, our language (and subsequently our powers of expression) have been deracinated in order to make us more susceptible to linguistic pathology. A tenet of modern thought is that the control of language is the control of reality. From this, a chain of reasoning becomes apparent: Out of linguistic pathology comes psychological pathology, which is only an intermediary on the path to spiritual pathology. Language, in one sense, is a highway of power and it carries the traffic of control; And therefore, it carries the possibility of abuse.

Poetry shepherds language. It tends to words—guiding the flock down a sure path. In poetry there is responsibility and the individual poet carries the shepherd’s mantle. It is within the poet’s power to abuse, but in our modern context, the poet is called upon to convalesce. The enemies of poetry—the abusers of language—are legion. Propagandists, marketers and poets themselves are among this barbarous horde. Make no mistake, this is not linguistic barbarism for barbarity’s sake. This barbarism is committed on the behalf of devilish intelligence. Which means that there were reasons behind the changes made to our tongue.

The explicit reasons for our current linguistic condition are beyond the scope of this article. But needless to say, I believe it was seen as good and necessary to diminish the contextual stability of English conventions. English poetic convention and its subsequent mechanisms allowed for the development of discriminating taste. This discrimination secures a language that enables us, not only to speak about ourselves, but to know ourselves and be ourselves. Language, as always, informs and supports identity. In hopes to illustrate my point, a brief illustration: If you have a finely tuned instrument, such as a piano, a single poorly tuned key is instantly recognized; But if the entire piano is out of tune, not any one key is at fault. The effect of a single note out of tune is noticeable and jolting. However, an entire instrument out of tune, to an untrained ear, will begin to sound normal. In this way, our language is “out of tune”, which allows any number of disordered “notes” to escape notice.

Poetry at present, therefore, should be understood as a necessary result of the current linguistic project. Deracination destroys discriminating taste, which allows the entrance of wayward elements. The extermination of poetry was very useful to the modern world because it wished to capitalize on the control of language. The wayward elements were introduced precisely because they were wayward—to lead people astray. A tighter leash grants finer control⁴.

Lest I try the reader’s patience any further, let us now return to Frost. In our current state of poetic destitution, we require a landmark to return to, so that we may gather our bearings. Frost will serve as such a waypoint on the journey. We must go back in order to go forward. It will be necessary, however, to bring more to Frost than what he left us with. He’s insufficient and we will need to supplement.

It should be of interest to us, that normal people say “I love Robert Frost” to this day. He truly captured something. He really was the national poet. His readability and simplicity of word and image probably account for his popularity, but also he was the embodiment of a certain American attitude. I will not attempt to characterize this attitude, as intuiting it from his poems will serve the reader better. Whatever attitude Frost once represented, that attitude has now metastasized. Untrammeled subversive irony has manufactured an unserious and petty soul. Frost bears some responsibility for poetry’s current state. His weakness—the paradoxical dynamic of his own self-seriousness and un-seriousness—allowed the grave, clownish poetry of today to thrive.

I do not wish, necessarily, to conserve Frost. We are being drowned by contemporary verse and he is our nearest buoy. Therefore a few suggestions on what we can learn from Frost might be made. Contemporary poetry mainly speaks in low-middle diction, as did Frost. However, he paid attention to the beauty of the verse itself—the sound and structure of the language—something, I think, missing in current verse, which is more apt to prioritize emotional impact over all other elements⁵. Related is his generality. His poems offer easy entry points for the reader—lacking in allusions and other high complexities. The main thrust of his poetry comprises images of trees, animals, flowers, snow and the like. His painter’s palette is simple and general—and accessible. Frost’s tendency towards a Romantic attitude will likely need to be jettisoned if American poetry wishes to reach for maturity. However, maintaining his general, primitive imagery and accessible, though thoughtful, language will prove vital.

I believe it is a fair assessment of Robert Frost to conclude that he serves as a valuable landmark for poetry going forward. As we return to his poems, we can begin mapping out the territory to which we must travel. Poetry requires a working, collective memory in order to thrive. Indeed, It might be said that the soul of Poetry inspirits the body of Memory. It is this very Memory that we are tasked with mapping out. Therefore, just as Frost serves as a landmark, new poems ought to serve an analogous purpose. What we are effectively doing is mapping out the pilgrim’s journey. Poems that are guide-stones and mile-markers will be necessary and good—to direct and delight. Landmark poetry is the project before us. Let us, then, begin to build. Lastly, it should be remembered from whence we came. Our father Chaucer helped sire English verse in his tale of a pilgrimage. It should not surprise us, that to learn who we are, we must once again, make the pilgrim’s journey.

III. Elements of the Verse

As previously stated, Frost attended to the beauty of verse itself. I would like, then, to present a few brief notes on the poem’s prosodic features. Namely, that I may give Frost his due for his craftsmanship.

Additionally, I would like to provide a few words on examining a poem’s particulars. A poem, first and foremost, is a unity—it is experienced as a single entity, all at once. However, that unity is composed of parts. The parts, then, may be taken out of the poem to be seen more clearly, but it must never be forgotten that the parts are given their meaning by the context. A line of poetry’s effect is never caused by, for instance, a trochee. The trochee, in the abstract, does not make the line work, nor does it make it a good line. However, a trochee plays its part in forming the line, and therefore contributes to the line’s success. Each trochee, however, is unique. One trochee will work, and another will not. The trochee, as a part of verse, may be analyzed in the abstract, but the trochee that we examine is this particular trochee and not another, and therefore must be treated accordingly. We may temporarily separate a part of a poem from its poem, but it must be returned to its natural habitat after we’ve discovered what we’ve set out to learn from it.

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The poem is written in iambic pentameter, with scarce deviation. The rhyme scheme is ababcdcd… It has twenty lines and can be broken into five sections of four lines each. The first four lines form a statement which terminates with a period. The second section does likewise. The remaining three sections, however, lack periods until the final line, and form one contiguous thought. This simultaneously gives us three distinct parts(a beginning, middle and end) and sets the pace of the poem. The first and second parts set an expectation that is then used for dynamic effect by tripling the length of the last part. This both assigns importance to the last part and draws out the time of the narrative for dramatic effect.

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By my scansion, there are five deviations or substitutions in the meter. They are listed as follows:

          /            /       x    x    /              /                    /
Unless | it was | the embod | iment | that crashed |
       /          /      x     x     /             /              /
In the | cliff’s ta | lus on | the o | ther side, |  
 x      /    x   x    /                /               /           /
But af | ter  a time | allowed | for it | to swim, |  
 /   x       x      /              /           /              /    
As a | great buck | it pow | erfully | appeared, |
    /     x                 /                   /             /            /
Pushing | the crum | pled wa | ter up | ahead, |   

The initial nine lines are written without interruption in the meter, thus building suspense for when the first deviation occurs. “The embodiment”—this anapest is the first disruption in the poem. It marks the introduction of the buck—the intrusion of the anapest reflects the surprise that something is indeed on the other side. “Embodiment” achieves a sort of ghostly effect.

“In the cliff’s talus” could be scanned multiple ways, but the effect is clear, there is a disruption in the first five syllables. It further reflects the buck’s intrusion and crashing about. “But after a time” temporally extends the line reflecting the pause that occurs before the buck begins to swim. “As a great buck” some would scan this a pyrrhic and spondee (“In the cliff’s talus” has the same construction). The reader feels increased stress of “great buck” thus granting it a thrust of importance. “As a” is near equal in stress, and apart from allowing “great buck” its effect, is preparatory for the trochaic “Pushing”. The trochee of “Pushing” lends force to the action.

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A common technique Frost uses is a type of “stress bunching”, often near the middle of the line. “From some tree-hidden” Notice the near equal stress of “from” and “some”; and “tree” and “hid”. It’s not enough stress to flip the iambics, but it’s close. This adds another rhythmic device to the poem, you can feel the lines tense up and release as you read. “Mocking echo”, “love back” and “great buck” all have this effect. This is, of course, not unusual in English verse, but it occurs frequently enough and is effective enough to be of note.

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As was remarked on before, the first eleven lines each have a hard “c” sound. It’s a fairly primal, throaty sound not involving the upper tongue or teeth. It vaguely reflects the sound of sobbing (“he would cry out”) and the hardness of the surrounding terrain (boulder, cliff, talus, rocks).

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“and that was all”—notice the tremendous lack of stress compared to the beginning of the line. The effect is an incredible deflation of expectation. The preceding dash grants a pause which creates further build-up and the subsequent disappointment.

1. An interesting question appears here. Is a voice or a body—that is to say a heard thing or a seen thing—more real? Should the eyes or the ears take precedent in determination of the real? What if the truth is only available to us via our hearing and therefore less certain, but a lesser truth is able to be seen and therefore more certain? A central point behind this poem: The Voice of God vs. the Body of Nature.

2. The other possible approximate Eve is the buck itself. Which might imply that Man builds Nature out of himself.

3. There is, perhaps, a sexual euphemism within “horny tread” and “forced the underbrush”. One which should not, I think, be easily dismissed. It would not be out of character for Frost to have intended it. A contrast is set up between the man and the buck. One desires a fulfilling cosmic love while the other simply seeks to mate. Within my interpretation of the buck as the Beast, a consideration of the Beast’s sexual relationship with the world is certainly not an unfruitful thought.

4. There is a paradox in which a “tighter leash” can be caused by the “looseness of words”.

5. Some might say the priority is self-expression, or perhaps, bare emotional-expression of the self.

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