North of Boston Robert Frost (desktop ebook reader TXT) đ
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- Author: Robert Frost
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What am I doing carrying off this bottle?
There now, you get some sleep.â
He shut the door.
The Doctor slid a little down the pillow.
He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look again. He spoke
Advancing toward her: âWhat is it you see
From up there alwaysâ âfor I want to know.â
She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,
And her face changed from terrified to dull.
He said to gain time: âWhat is it you see,â
Mounting until she cowered under him.
âI will find out nowâ âyou must tell me, dear.â
She, in her place, refused him any help
With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.
She let him look, sure that he wouldnât see,
Blind creature; and a while he didnât see.
But at last he murmured, âOh,â and again, âOh.â
âWhat is itâ âwhat?â she said.
âJust that I see.â
âYou donât,â she challenged. âTell me what it is.â
âThe wonder is I didnât see at once.
I never noticed it from here before.
I must be wonted to itâ âthatâs the reason.
The little graveyard where my people are!
So small the window frames the whole of it.
Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?
There are three stones of slate and one of marble,
Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight
On the sidehill. We havenât to mind those.
But I understand: it is not the stones,
But the childâs moundâ ââ
âDonât, donât, donât, donât,â she cried.
She withdrew shrinking from beneath his arm
That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;
And turned on him with such a daunting look,
He said twice over before he knew himself:
âCanât a man speak of his own child heâs lost?â
âNot you! Oh, whereâs my hat? Oh, I donât need it!
I must get out of here. I must get air.
I donât know rightly whether any man can.â
âAmy! Donât go to someone else this time.
Listen to me. I wonât come down the stairs.â
He sat and fixed his chin between his fists.
âThereâs something I should like to ask you, dear.â
âYou donât know how to ask it.â
âHelp me, then.â
Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.
âMy words are nearly always an offence.
I donât know how to speak of anything
So as to please you. But I might be taught
I should suppose. I canât say I see how.
A man must partly give up being a man
With women-folk. We could have some arrangement
By which Iâd bind myself to keep hands off
Anything special youâre a-mind to name.
Though I donât like such things âtwixt those that love.
Two that donât love canât live together without them.
But two that do canât live together with them.â
She moved the latch a little. âDonâtâ âdonât go.
Donât carry it to someone else this time.
Tell me about it if itâs something human.
Let me into your grief. Iâm not so much
Unlike other folks as your standing there
Apart would make me out. Give me my chance.
I do think, though, you overdo it a little.
What was it brought you up to think it the thing
To take your mother-loss of a first child
So inconsolablyâ âin the face of love.
Youâd think his memory might be satisfiedâ ââ
âThere you go sneering now!â
âIâm not, Iâm not!
You make me angry. Iâll come down to you.
God, what a woman! And itâs come to this,
A man canât speak of his own child thatâs dead.â
âYou canât because you donât know how.
If you had any feelings, you that dug
With your own handâ âhow could you?â âhis little grave;
I saw you from that very window there,
Making the gravel leap and leap in air,
Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly
And roll back down the mound beside the hole.
I thought, Who is that man? I didnât know you.
And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs
To look again, and still your spade kept lifting.
Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice
Out in the kitchen, and I donât know why,
But I went near to see with my own eyes.
You could sit there with the stains on your shoes
Of the fresh earth from your own babyâs grave
And talk about your everyday concerns.
You had stood the spade up against the wall
Outside there in the entry, for I saw it.â
âI shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.
Iâm cursed. God, if I donât believe Iâm cursed.â
âI can repeat the very words you were saying.
âThree foggy mornings and one rainy day
Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.â
Think of it, talk like that at such a time!
What had how long it takes a birch to rot
To do with what was in the darkened parlour.
You couldnât care! The nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.
No, from the time when one is sick to death,
One is alone, and he dies more alone.
Friends make pretence of following to the grave,
But before one is in it, their minds are turned
And making the best of their way back to life
And living people, and things they understand.
But the worldâs evil. I wonât have grief so
If I can change it. Oh, I wonât, I wonât!â
âThere, you have said it all and you feel better.
You wonât go now. Youâre crying. Close the door.
The heartâs gone out of it: why keep it up.
Amy! Thereâs someone coming down the road!â
âYouâ âoh, you think the talk is all. I must goâ â
Somewhere out of this house. How can I make youâ ââ
âIfâ âyouâ âdo!â She was opening the door wider.
âWhere do you mean to go? First tell me that.
Iâll follow and bring you back by force. I will!â ââ
We chanced in passing by that afternoon
To catch it in a sort of special picture
Among tar-banded ancient cherry trees,
Set well back from the road in rank lodged grass,
The little cottage we were speaking of,
A front with just a door between two windows,
Fresh painted by the shower a velvet black.
We paused, the minister and I, to look.
He made as if to hold it at armâs length
Or put the leaves aside
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