Robert Frost

A nagging question in Frost criticism in the half-century since the author’s death has been where to place him in the larger narrative of American poetry.

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.

The land was ours before we were the land's.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours

The grade surmounted we were speeding high
Through level mountains nothing to the eye
But scrub oak, scrub oak and the lack of earth