North of Boston - The Woodpile - Robert Frost
Channel: New Media Arts Inc
Date: 2023-11-03

ROBERT FROST

From a hired hand who finally comes home, to a man who will never walk the New England woods again for his beloved native orchids, Robert Frost paints his metaphors into the lives of country people in a rich and formidable land.

These 17 pieces are from Robert Frost’s modernist masterpiece, “North of Boston” first published in 1914. 

16 The Wood-pile
Voice: Judith Adele
Directed by Judith Adele and Bob Shurley
Image and SFX editing: Judith Adele
Sound and video editing: Bob Shurley

A production of Avatar Repertory Theater: www.avatarrepertorytheater.org

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IMAGE & SFX SOURCES: 
Pixabayforest-287807_960_720, Pixabaywood-1627990_960_720
Jen Goellnitz, American Tree Sparrow, (Spizella arborea). Rocky River Reservation, Cleveland Metroparks.
www.freesound.org: 347850__inspectorj__footsteps-dry-leaves-g, 321119__veridiansunrise__chickadees-singing

TEXT (Project Gutenberg edition)
The Wood-pile

   Out walking in the frozen swamp one grey 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 down. 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 grey 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 axe,
   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.