罗伯特·弗罗斯特 诗歌 [正版] 罗伯特弗罗斯特诗歌集 少年的意志 波士顿以北 英文原版书 Poems by Rober

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书名：Poems by Robert Frost: A Boy’s Will and North of Boston罗伯特•弗罗斯特诗歌集：《少年的意志》和《波士顿以北》

作者：Robert Frost罗伯特•弗罗斯特
出版社名称：Signet Classics
出版时间：2001
语种：英文
ISBN：9780451527875
商品尺寸：10.7 x 1 x 17.3 cm
包装：简装
页数：160 （以实物为准）
罗伯特·弗罗斯特，20世纪很受欢迎的美国诗人之一，曾赢得4次普利策奖和许多其他的奖励及荣誉，被称为“美国文学中的桂冠诗人”。

Poems by Robert Frost《罗伯特•弗罗斯特诗歌集》收录了他创作的两本诗集：A Boy’s Will《少年的意志》和North of Boston《波士顿以北》，出版后赢得了美国诗歌界的关注和好评。
本书为Signet Classics推出的英文原版，由William H. Pritchard写导言，Peter Davison写后记，内容完整无删减，书本轻巧便携。
100th Anniversary Edition
Poems by Robert Frost A Boy’s Will and North of Boston
The publication of A Boy’s Will(1913) and North of Boston(1914) marked the debut of Robert Frost as a major talent and established him as the true poetic voice of New England. Four of his volumes would win the Pulitzer Prize before his death in 1963, and his body of work has since become an integral part of the American national heritage.
This is the only edition to present these two classics in their original form.A Boy’s Will introduced readers to Frost’s unmistakable poetic voice, and in North of Boston, we find two of his most famous poems, “Mending Wall” and “The Death of the Hired Man.” With an introduction by distinguished critic and Amherst professor William H. Pritchard and an afterword by poet and critic Peter Davison, this centennial edition stands as a complete and vital introduction to the work of the quintessential modern American poet.
Introduction by William H. Pritchard
Afterword by Peter Davison
罗伯特•弗罗斯特，美国诗人，曾四度获得普立兹奖。1874年3月26日生于美国西部的旧金山。他11岁丧父，之后随母亲迁居新英格兰。此后，他就与那块土地结下了不解之缘。弗罗斯特16岁开始学写诗，20岁时正式发表一首诗歌。他勤奋笔耕，一生中共出了10多本诗集。他一生历尽艰辛和痛苦，幼年丧父，中年丧妻，老年丧子（女）。成名后的弗罗斯特受聘于多所大学，经常外出读诗和演讲，拖着病体疲惫不堪地回家。他诗歌中常常出现与孤独、绝望、死亡等关联的意象，如冬、雪、冰、霜、枯叶等。因此，弗罗斯特常以凋零的玫瑰、干枯的花朵等，以喻体映衬孤独、悲哀、寂寞的内心世界。

Robert Lee Frost was born in San Francisco in 1874. When he was ten, his father died and he and his mother moved to New England. He attended school at Dartmouth and Harvard, worked in a mill, taught, and took up farming before he moved to England, where his first books of poetry, A Boy’s Will (1913) and North of Boston (1914), were published. In 1915 he returned to the United States and settled on a farm in New Hampshire. Four volumes of his poetry—New Hampshire (1923), Collected Poems (1930), A Further Range (1936), and A Witness Tree (1942)—were awarded the Pulitzer Prize. He died in 1963.
 
William H. Pritchard is a distinguished critic and Henry Clay Folger Professor of English at Amherst College. Among his works are On Poets and Poetry and Frost: A Literary Life Reconsidered.
 
Peter Davison was an esteemed critic, poetry editor for The Atlantic Monthly, and author of ten books of verse, including The Breaking of the Day, winner of the Yale Younger Poets Award, and such works of nonfiction as One of the Dangerous Trades: Essays on the Work and Working of Poetry.
Introduction by William H. Pritchard

A BOY’S WILL
Part I
Into My Own
Ghost House
My November Guest
Love and a Question
A Late Walk
Stars
Storm Fear
Wind and Window Flower
To the Thawing Wind
A Prayer in Spring
Flower-Gathering
Rose Pogonias
Asking for Roses
Waiting—afield at Dusk
In a Vale
A Dream Pang
In Neglect
The Vantage Point
Mowing
Going for Water
Part II
Revelation
The Trial by Existence
In Equal Sacrifice
The Tuft of Flowers
Spoils of the Dead
Pan with Us
The Demiurge’s Laugh
Part III
Now Close the Windows
A Line-Storm Song
October
My Butterfly
Reluctance

North of Boston
Mending Wall
The Death of the Hired Man
The Mountain
A Hundred Collars
Home Burial
The Black Cottage
Blueberries
A Servant to Servants
After Apple-Picking
The Code
The Generations of Men
The Housekeeper
The Fear
The Self-Seeker
The Wood-Pile
Afterword: “Farness and Depth” by Peter Davison
Note
Bibliography of Critical Works

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.
Ice-storms do that. 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-coloured
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.