Robert Frost on happiness

In happiness, what i'm reading on April 13, 2009 at 3:15 pm

I recently came across this poem by American poet Robert Frost (1874-1963).

As with plenty of creative souls, he had a particulary tragic personal life. His father died when Frost was 11, leaving the family penniless. His mother died when he was 26, resulting in the institutionalisation in a mental hospital of his sister some year later. A family rife with depression, he was also forced to commit his daughter to a mental hospital in 1947. Three of his six children died while he was still alive and one committed suicide.

How he then managed to win so four Pulitzer prizes for his work and publish so widely is a wonder. He penned this charming poem in 1942:

Happiness makes up in height what it lacks in length

O stormy, stormy world,
The days you were not swirled
Around with mist and cloud,
Or wrapped as in a shroud,
And the sun’s brilliant ball
Was not in part or all
Obscured from mortal view—
Were days so very few
I can but wonder whence
I get the lasting sense
Of so much warmth and light.
If my mistrust is right
It may be altogether
From one day’s perfect weather,
When starting clear at dawn
The day swept clearly on
To finish clear at eve.
I verily believe
My fair impression may
Be all from that one day
No shadow crossed but ours
As through its blazing flowers
We went from house to wood
geovisit(); For change of solitude. 


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