Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw it
And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand
Among the harp-like morning-glory strings,
Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,
As if she played some unheard tenderness
That wrought on him beside her in the night.
(from “The Death of the Hired Man”)Typically, Frost is less lyrical than this and more conversational in tone. In fact, Untermyer mentions that several of his poems have been performed as short one-act plays. Due to this, some of his poems remind me of Chekov vignettes, and his darker observations can bring to mind a Maupassant short-short tale of horror. Nevertheless, all his poems have a strong humanist element and are often filled with pearls of offhand wisdom. And there you have it, my guilt is alleviated for the time being!