Just seven years ago, I was lucky enough to find an incomplete draft of a Robert Frost poem that had escaped the attention of Frost scholars. The poem was published and ballyhooed as the last scrap of Frost verse we could ever expect to read. [...]
In 1918, Robert Frost inscribed a new poem, “War Thoughts at Home,” in a copy of North of Boston, his second book. In the eighty-eight years since, the poem never quite resurfaced—until now. Published here for the first time, “War Thoughts at [...]
Abandon hope of sober analysis here: a new Frost poem has surfaced. There is something new in the old voice, another song in a stanza-form packed with salt and built to last, another note struck upon war broken out far away and near while another war breaks out far away and near: it’s a giddying moment for one who reached a point of such identification with that voice that he could no longer write in anything but, and trod the lanes of Amherst helplessly trying to compose in it, who did his own impressions of it at his own open mike in the woods, who wrote one last witless parody of it as some kind of shot at good riddance.