Robert Frost was born on March 26 in 1874. One of Frost’s lesser known and perhaps under-appreciated poems, “The Birthplace,” was written in 1928, eighty years before the birth of my nephew Casey on March 26, 2008. In tribute to both of them on their birth date, I suggest the sonnet below:
Here further up the mountain slope
Than there was ever any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of wall round everything,
Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
And brought our various lives to pass.
A dozen girls and boys we were.
The mountain seemed to like the stir,
And made of us a little while—
With always something in her smile.
Today she wouldn't know our name.
(No girl's, of course, has stayed the same.)
The mountain pushed us off her knees.
And now her lap is full of trees.