That Road, I Trod It Not

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

He never needed the letter E !
The Road Not Taken
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.
That Road, I Trod It Not
Two roads! At a fork in an autumn wood I was sorry I could not go down both Without bifurcating. Long I stood looking down road X as far as I could till it slank out of sight in that sylvan growth. And I took road Y, which could turn a trick, Alluring, and angling for priority, That is, it was grassy and in good nick, Though I must say footfall and walking-stick Had worn both roads with comparability. And both that morning similarly lay Intact, no taint of any trampling black. I put off Road X for a distant day, Though, knowing how way links up with way, I hardly thought that I would go back. I shall spout this story and I shall sigh, Who knows how soon, or in what locality: Two roads at a fork in a wood, and I – Shunning busy road X, I took road Y! – With what upshot? A thoroughgoing dissimilarity!
The story behind this poem: 'Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" is both humorous and ironic, reflecting the poet's playful side. In the early 20th century, Frost became close friends with the English writer Edward Thomas. They often took long walks together through the countryside, where Thomas would frequently express regret over not choosing a different path once they had gone a certain way. Frost, amused by Thomas's indecision and tendency to second-guess himself, decided to write a poem as a gentle parody of his friend. 'In 1915, Frost penned "The Road Not Taken," intending it as a playful mockery of Thomas’s indecisiveness. The poem's narrator stands at a fork in the woods, choosing one path over another, only to later claim that the choice made "all the difference," despite the paths being equally worn. Frost sent the poem to Thomas, expecting his friend to catch the humor. However, Thomas did not realize that the poem was meant to be lighthearted and instead interpreted it as a serious reflection on choice and consequence. This misunderstanding disappointed Frost but also deepened the poem’s legacy, as it highlighted how easily people can misconstrue intentions based on their perspectives. 'Interestingly, this poem, which Frost intended as a joke, became one of his most famous and is often quoted as an inspiring message about individualism and the significance of choices in life. Yet, Frost’s original intent was more about poking fun at the human tendency to overthink and attribute deep meaning to decisions that, in hindsight, may not have been as significant as we believe. 'This story not only sheds light on the poem’s true meaning but also adds a layer of irony, as the world continues to interpret the poem in a way that differs from Frost’s original playful intent.'

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Dust of Snow

Dust of Snow

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Let's see whether he needed the letter E.
Dust of Snow
The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.
Dust of Snow
I'm glad that a crow shook down just now my dusting of snow from a poison-bough: a try-again start transforming my mood, and saving a part of a day not good.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Who was that? By Wally d l M.

Some One

Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)

Let’s see whether he needed the letter E.
Some One
Some one came knocking At my wee, small door; Someone came knocking; I'm sure-sure-sure; I listened, I opened, I looked to left and right, But nought there was a stirring In the still dark night; Only the busy beetle Tap-tapping in the wall, Only from the forest The screech-owl's call, Only the cricket whistling While the dewdrops fall, So I know not who came knocking, At all, at all, at all.
Who was that? By Wally d l M.
Who was that knocking At my dainty door? That was a knocking That I’m vouching for; Hark, hark, unlatch, unlatch, Look this way and that! But nought was a stirring, All was black as your hat; Only a busy bug Tapping in a wall, Only from woodland A shrill owl’s call, And Jiminy’s whistling As dawndrops fall, So I know not who was knocking, At all, at all, at all.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Wind and Fiddle

Wind und Geige

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Wind und Geige
Drinnen im Saal eine Geige sang, sie sang von Liebe so wild, so lind. Draussen der Wind durch die Zweige sang: Was willst du, Menschenkind? Drinnen im Saale die Geige sang: Ich will das Glück, ich will das Glück! Draussen der Wind durch die Zweige sang: Es ist das alte Stück. Drinnen im Saale die Geige sang: Und ist es alt, für mich ist's neu. Draussen der Wind durch die Zweige sang: Schon mancher starb an Reu. Der letzte Geigenton verklang; die Fenster wurden bleich und blind; aber noch lange sang und sang im dunklen Wald der Wind ... Was willst du, Menschenkind?
Wind and Fiddle
Inside the hall a fiddle sang, It sang of love, so sweet and wild. Outside, the wind in the branches sang: What do you wish for, human child? Inside the hall a fiddle sang: Fortune’s my wish, and happiness. Outside, the wind in the branches sang: Old cant! I’ve heard it to excess. Inside the hall a fiddle sang: Old it may be, for me ’tis new. Outside, the wind in the branches sang: Many have died of bitter rue. At last the fiddle-song was done, The panes no longer gleamed and smiled; And still the wind sang on, sang on, Out in the forest dark and wild. What do you wish for, human child?

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Wind’s a Whistler

Es pfeift der Wind . . .

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Es pfeift der Wind . . .
Es pfeift der Wind. Was pfeift er wohl? Eine tolle, närrische Weise. Er pfeift auf einem Schlüssel hohl, bald gellend und bald leise. Die Nacht weint ihm den Takt dazu mit schweren Regentropfen, die an der Fenster schwarze Ruh ohn End eintönig klopfen. Es pfeift der Wind. Es stöhnt und gellt. Die Hunde heulen im Hofe. Er pfeift auf diese ganze Welt, der große Philosophe.
The Wind’s a Whistler
The wind’s a whistler. His will be a melody mad and mental, all in a single dismal key, now bellowing, now gentle. Night weeps the pulse that he maintains, sends heavy raindrops pounding on the black peaceful window-panes, relentlessly resounding. A roaring, groaning sibilant, In all the world he’ll whistle. Let yard-dogs rant: he’s Newton, Kant, Socrates, Bertrand Russell.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Aesthetic Weasel

Das ästhetische Wiesel

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Das ästhetische Wiesel
Ein Wiesel saß auf einem Kiesel inmitten Bachgeriesel. Wißt ihr weshalb? Das Mondkalb verriet es mir im Stillen: Das raffinier- te Tier tat’s um des Reimes willen.
The Aesthetic Weasel
A weasel sat on an easel no, a pebble in the Ribble. Are you aware, for why, and wherefore? The mooncalf blew the gaff in a quiet time: The tiny mammal, a refined animal, loved the laugh and the rhyme.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Knee

Das Knie

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Das Knie
Ein Knie geht einsam durch die Welt. Es ist ein Knie, sonst nichts! Es ist kein Baum! Es ist kein Zelt! Es ist ein Knie, sonst nichts. Im Kriege ward einmal ein Mann erschossen um und um. Das Knie allein blieb unverletzt- als wärs ein Heiligtum. Seitdem gehts einsam durch die Welt. Es ist ein Knie, sonst nichts. Es ist kein Baum, es ist kein Zelt. Es ist ein Knie, sonst nichts.
The Knee
A knee is on a solo spree. It’s just a knee, that’s all! It’s not a tree, nor a tepee, It’s just a knee, that’s all. A soldier in sharp shots was swathed, Shocked, shellacked, shattered, shanked. The knee alone remained unscathed, Seemingly sacrosanct. It still is on a solo spree. It’s just a knee, that’s all. It’s not a tree, nor a tepee, It’s just a knee, that’s all.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Cabbie’s Nag

Der Droschkengaul

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Der Droschkengaul
Ich bin zwar nur ein Droschkengaul, – doch philosophisch regsam; der Freß-Sack hängt mir kaum ums Maul, so werd ich überlegsam. Ich schwenk ihn her, ich schwenk ihn hin, und bei dem trauten Schwenken geht mir so manches durch den Sinn, woran nur Weise denken. Ich bin zwar nur ein Droschkengaul, – doch sann ich oft voll Sorgen, wie ich den Hafer brächt ins Maul, der tief im Grund verborgen. Ich schwenkte hoch, ich schwenkte tief, bis mir die Ohren klangen. Was dort in Nacht verschleiert schlief, ich konnt es nicht erlangen. Ich bin zwar nur ein Droschkengaul, – doch mag ich Trost nicht missen und sage mir: So steht es faul mit allem Erdenwissen; es frisst im Weisheitsfuttersack wohl jeglich Maul ein Weilchen, doch nie erreicht's – o Schabernack – die letzten Bodenteilchen.
The Cabbie’s Nag
I may be just a cabbie’s nag: I’m busy with a puzzle. Philosophy! My dinner-bag hangs almost off my muzzle. I swing it here, I swing it there, swing back and forth for ages: I think my thoughts, and they compare with thoughts of saints and sages. I may be just a cabbie’s nag. I think about the bottom, the last oats in my dinner-bag: it’s ages since I got ’em. I’ve swung it high, I’ve swung it low, I’ve set my eardrums humming: what’s veiled in darkness down below is never, ever, coming. I may be just a cabbie’s nag, and yet I seek for solace. I tell myself: here is the snag about all earthly knowledge. In wisdom’s nosebag, eager lips go seeking wholesome fare, but never, as the muzzle dips, get to the lowest layer.  

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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An Unknown Land

Ein unbekanntes Land

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Ein unbekanntes Land
Ich bin mir selbst ein unbekanntes Land und jedes Jahr entdeck ich neue Stege. Bald wandr' ich hin durch meilenweiten Sand und bald durch blütenquellende Gehege. So oft mein Ziel im Dunkel mir entschwand, verriet ein neuer Stern mir neue Wege.
An Unknown Land
I am, for my own self, an unknown land And year by year new pathways are revealed. Sometimes I wander on through miles of sand, Sometimes I’m strolling through a flowery field. And when my goal is hid in darkness’ hand, A new star shines, new passes are unsealed.
Not in my bilingual book 'Morgenstern's Magic' from The High Window.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Willow Catkin

Das Weidenkätzchen

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Das Weidenkätzchen
Kätzchen ihr der Weide, wie aus grauer Seide, wie aus grauem Samt! O ihr Silberkätzchen, sagt mir doch, ihr Schätzchen, sagt, woher ihr stammt. Wollen's gern dir sagen: Wir sind ausgeschlagen aus dem Weidenbaum, haben winterüber drin geschlafen, Lieber, in tieftiefem Traum. In dem dürren Baume in tieftiefem Traume habt geschlafen ihr? In dem Holz, dem harten war, ihr weichen, zarten, euer Nachtquartier? Mußt dich recht besinnen: Was da träumte drinnen, waren wir noch nicht, wie wir jetzt im Kleide blühn von Samt und Seide hell im Sonnenlicht. Nur als wie Gedanken lagen wir im schlanken grauen Baumgeäst; unsichtbare Geister, die der Weltbaumeister dort verweilen lässt. Kätzchen ihr der Weide, wie aus grauer Seide, wie aus grauem Samt! O ihr Silberkätzchen, ja, nun weiß, ihr Schätzchen, ich, woher ihr stammt.  
The Willow Catkin
You catkins of willow, silk-grey, velvet-grey, silver catkins, o say: my sweetings, o tell me, how came you this way? We’ll happily say: the willow’s our home, and from it we come; we slept winter away, deep, deep was our dream. In bare trees to sleep, and dreaming so deep? You are tender! How could that be? Was it good, hard night in the wood? Consider aright: we dreamed in the glade, not yet so arrayed as now we’re displayed, silk, velvet, grey shade, by sun shining bright. Like pure meditation in bare boughs we lay, boughs narrow and grey, unseen inspiration: the Lord of creation allowed us to stay. You catkins of willow, silk-grey, velvet-grey, silver catkins, I pay respects to you, sweetings: you’ve told me the way you came here, today.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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