Si vous souhaitez lire les poèmes les plus célèbres et les plus beaux de Robert Frost, vous êtes au bon endroit. Bien que l'art soit subjectif, j'ai essayé de sélectionner les poèmes les plus remarquables de cet auteur en fonction de mes préférences personnelles et de leur présence dans plusieurs anthologies de poésie que j'ai lues.

Robert Frost (1874-1963), un poète américain emblématique, est né à San Francisco, en Californie. Connus pour son exploration profonde de la vie rurale et du langage familier, Frost a remporté quatre prix Pulitzer. Son poème le plus célèbre, "The Road Not Taken", a acquis une renommée mondiale pour son exploration de l'impact des choix sur la vie.

Voici notre sélection des meilleurs et des plus célèbres poèmes de Robert Frost.

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The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost

"The Road Not Taken" est l'une des œuvres les plus reconnaissables de Robert Frost, publiée pour la première fois en 1916 dans la collection "Mountain Interval". Le poème narre un moment où le locuteur arrive à un carrefour et doit décider quel chemin suivre.

Je suis captivé par sa profondeur métaphorique. Elle symbolise les choix de la vie et l'impact de ces choix sur notre parcours. Le poème touche de nombreux lecteurs en raison de sa pertinence - nous avons tous été confrontés à des choix et avons réfléchi à ce qu'il se serait passé si nous avions pris d'autres décisions.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Fire and Ice - Robert Frost

"Fire and Ice", apparaissant pour la première fois en 1920 dans la collection de Frost "New Hampshire", est un poème court mais puissant sur la fin du monde. Avec ses lignes d'ouverture emblématiques, Frost juxtapose les qualités destructrices du feu (le désir) et de la glace (la haine).

À mon avis, la brillance de ce poème réside dans sa brièveté et la profondeur de son message. Frost oppose deux forces contraires, offrant une perspective tranchée sur la manière dont les émotions humaines pourraient conduire à notre perte.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Mending Wall - Robert Frost

"Mending Wall" a été publié pour la première fois en 1914 dans la deuxième collection de poésie de Frost, "North of Boston". Il détaille une histoire de deux voisins qui se rencontrent pour réparer un mur de pierres qui sépare leurs propriétés, une tâche qui incite à une discussion sur la nécessité des frontières.

J'apprécie ce poème pour sa réflexion nuancée sur le besoin humain de frontières et de séparation. La répétition de "Good fences make good neighbors" (les bonnes barrières font les bons voisins) ajoute du poids au dilemme présenté. Le poème invite les lecteurs à contempler le véritable but des murs dans la société - nous rapprochent-ils ou nous éloignent-ils ?

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening - Robert Frost

Publié pour la première fois en 1923 dans sa collection "New Hampshire", "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" est une représentation sereine d'un homme s'arrêtant près des bois par une soirée d'hiver, captivé par le spectacle enneigé.

Je trouve ce poème profondément enchanteur. Sa simplicité, associée à sa qualité rythmique, presque comme une berceuse, évoque un sentiment de tranquillité. C'est une réflexion poétique sur la beauté de la nature, l'attrait de la solitude et les responsabilités qui nous ramènent à la vie, des thèmes qui résonnent avec de nombreux lecteurs.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

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.

Birches - Robert Frost

"Birches" est une œuvre de la collection "Mountain Interval" de Frost, publiée en 1916. Elle décrit une scène rurale où des tempêtes de glace ont courbé les bouleaux, amenant le locuteur à réfléchir sur les difficultés de la vie et le désir d'évasion, ne serait-ce que momentanément. En lisant "Birches", je suis touché par l'imagerie vivante et le symbolisme poignant de Frost.

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Acquainted with the Night - Robert Frost

"Acquainted with the Night" a été publié en 1928 dans la collection "West-Running Brook" de Frost. Ce sonnet présente la marche solitaire d'un individu dans la ville la nuit, utilisant la métaphore de l'obscurité pour explorer les thèmes de l'isolement et du désespoir.

Je trouve l'imagerie de ce poème incroyablement évocatrice. Le voyage nocturne du narrateur à travers les rues silencieuses est une métaphore frappante pour l'aliénation personnelle et la solitude. L'expérience humaine universelle de la solitude, véhiculée par l'usage magistral de la langue par Frost, est ce qui résonne souvent avec les lecteurs.

Veuillez noter que le poème suivant est toujours sous protection du droit d'auteur. Par conséquent, nous ne pouvons présenter qu'un bref extrait.

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
[…]

Nothing Gold Can Say - Robert Frost

"Nothing Gold Can Stay" est apparu pour la première fois dans la collection de Frost, "New Hampshire", en 1923. Le bref poème de huit lignes explore la nature éphémère de la beauté et de l'innocence, symbolisées par l'or de l'aube et les feuilles vertes fraîches du printemps. La capacité de Frost à transmettre un sentiment aussi profond en quelques lignes seulement est un témoignage de son talent.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

After Apple Picking - Robert Frost

"After Apple-Picking", publié pour la première fois en 1914 dans "North of Boston", détaille les réflexions d'un cueilleur de pommes fatigué qui vient de terminer le travail de la saison. Le poème explore les thèmes du travail, des rêves et de la ligne floue entre la réalité et l'imaginaire.

En tant que lecteur, j'admire l'équilibre délicat de Frost entre le travail physique de la cueillette des pommes et l'état rêveur du narrateur. La richesse sensorielle du poème et sa méditation sur la nature des rêves et de la réalité lui confèrent un attrait durable.

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 form 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.

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Christmas Trees - Robert Frost

"Christmas Trees" a été publié pour la première fois en 1916. Dans ce poème narratif charmant, Frost raconte l'histoire d'un citadin essayant d'acheter les arbres de Noël du locuteur à un prix exorbitant, ce qui conduit à des réflexions sur la valeur intrinsèque de la nature.

Je trouve l'exploration par ce poème du conflit entre le commercialisme et la valeur inhérente de la nature assez provocante. L'équilibre entre humour et réflexion plus profonde est typique de l'œuvre de Frost.

The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn't thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I'd hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I'd hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said,
"There aren't enough to be worth while."
"I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over."

"You could look.
But don't expect I'm going to let you have them."
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded "Yes" to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer's moderation, "That would do."
I thought so too, but wasn't there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north. He said, "A thousand."

"A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?"

He felt some need of softening that to me:
"A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars."

Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn't know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn't lay one in a letter.
I can't help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

Design - Robert Frost

"Design" est apparu pour la première fois en 1922 et a été publié plus tard en 1936 dans la collection "A Further Range". J'apprécie l'exploration provocante de ce poème sur le monde naturel et la question à savoir si l'univers est tel qu'il est grâce à un créateur ou simplement dû au hasard.

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.

Directive - Robert Frost

"Directive" est apparu pour la première fois dans la collection "Steeple Bush" de Frost en 1947. C'est un poème qui emmène le lecteur à travers un paysage post-apocalyptique. La force de ce poème réside dans sa complexité, offrant à la fois un voyage émotionnel et une critique des effets de la modernité sur la nature. Son mélange de désolation et d'espoir subtil, ainsi que son imagerie riche et évocatrice, le rendent captivant pour de nombreux lecteurs.

Veuillez noter que le poème suivant est toujours sous protection du droit d'auteur. Par conséquent, nous ne pouvons présenter qu'un bref extrait.

Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
[…]

Never Again Would Birds' Song Be the Same - Robert Frost

"Never Again Would Birds' Song Be the Same", publié à titre posthume en 1949, est un hommage de Frost à sa femme, Elinor. Le poème suggère que sa présence a modifié de manière permanente les chants des oiseaux dans les bois près de leur maison.

Je suis touché par la nature intime et personnelle de ce poème. L'hommage tendre de Frost à sa femme et la façon dont il imagine son influence s'étendant jusqu'aux chants mêmes des oiseaux confèrent à cette pièce un aspect très émouvant.

Veuillez noter que le poème suivant est toujours sous protection du droit d'auteur. Par conséquent, nous ne pouvons présenter qu'un bref extrait.

He would declare and could himself believe
That the birds there in all the garden round
From having heard the daylong voice of Eve
Had added to their own an oversound,
Her tone of meaning but without the words.
[…]

Putting in the Seed - Robert Frost

"Putting in the Seed" fait partie de la collection "Mountain Interval" de Robert Frost, publiée en 1916. Le cadre rural du poème, un thème courant dans les œuvres de Frost, sert de toile de fond aux observations du locuteur sur la plantation de graines, avec des implications métaphoriques plus profondes sur la vie et la création.

Je crois que la beauté de ce poème vient de la capacité de Frost à intégrer les tâches agricoles quotidiennes dans une méditation sur la patience, le travail et les cycles de la vie. C'est cet entrelacement du banal avec le profond, présenté à travers le langage accessible de Frost et son imagerie vivante, qui attire les lecteurs vers cette œuvre.

You come to fetch me from my work to-night
When supper's on the table, and we'll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree.
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;)
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

The Oven Bird - Robert Frost

"The Oven Bird" a été publié pour la première fois dans la collection "Mountain Interval" de Frost en 1916. Ce poème en forme de sonnet se concentre sur un oiseau dont le chant incite le locuteur à contempler le passage du temps et l'approche inexorable de l'hiver.

There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.

The Wood-Pile - Robert Frost

"The Wood-Pile" figure dans la collection "North of Boston" de Frost, publiée en 1914. Il raconte la promenade hivernale du locuteur dans les bois, où il tombe sur un tas de bois laissé par quelqu'un il y a longtemps, suscitant des réflexions sur les objectifs, le travail et l'abandon.

Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,
I paused and said, 'I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.'
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather—
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled—and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labor of his ax,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.

Biographie de Robert Frost

Robert Frost, né le 26 mars 1874 à San Francisco, en Californie, était un poète américain très apprécié pour ses représentations réalistes de la vie rurale et sa maîtrise complexe du langage populaire américain. Les premières années de Frost ont été marquées par la tragédie avec la mort de son père, après quoi sa famille a déménagé dans le Massachusetts, une région qui sera fortement présente dans sa poésie.

Le parcours de Frost dans la poésie a commencé au lycée et s'est poursuivi lors de son passage au Dartmouth College et plus tard à l'Université Harvard. Cependant, l'université n'a pas retenu longtemps l'attention de Frost. Il a quitté Harvard pour se consacrer à l'écriture et à l'agriculture - ce qui ne lui a pas apporté de succès immédiat mais a façonné sa voix et ses sujets, les enracinant dans les paysages et la vie de la Nouvelle-Angleterre.

Parmi les œuvres bien connues de Frost figurent "The Road Not Taken", "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" et "Mending Wall". Bien qu'apparemment simples, ces poèmes abordent des thèmes profonds tels que la prise de décision, la solitude et la relation humaine avec la nature, révélant l'exploration profonde de Frost sur la condition humaine. Sa capacité à tirer des vérités universelles d'expériences quotidiennes et son usage magistral des formes de vers traditionnelles le distinguent de ses contemporains.

La vie personnelle de Frost a été semée de difficultés et de pertes. Il a épousé Elinor Miriam White, avec qui il a eu six enfants. Cependant, Frost a été confronté à de nombreuses tragédies, seuls deux de ses enfants lui ayant survécu, et sa femme est décédée en 1938. Ces peines personnelles ont infusé sa poésie d'un ton sombre et introspectif.

Tout au long de sa carrière, Frost a reçu de nombreux hommages, y compris quatre Prix Pulitzer de Poésie, un exploit que peu ont réalisé. Son œuvre, un mélange unique de perspective moderniste et de forme traditionnelle, a profondément influencé la littérature américaine et continue de résonner auprès des lecteurs aujourd'hui.

Malgré les peines qui ont assombri sa vie personnelle, Frost a continué à écrire et à donner des conférences à travers les États-Unis et à l'étranger. Il est décédé le 29 janvier 1963, laissant derrière lui un riche héritage littéraire.

En résumé, Robert Frost était un poète vénéré dont la représentation de la Nouvelle-Angleterre rurale et l'exploration de thèmes sociaux et philosophiques complexes ont assuré sa place dans le panthéon de la littérature américaine. Malgré de nombreuses tragédies personnelles, la voix poétique de Frost est restée résolue et perspicace, et son œuvre continue d'inspirer et de résonner avec les lecteurs du monde entier.

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