Because of Robert Frost.
Growing up in suburban Massachusetts, Frost’s poems transported me to the fields and forests of Vermont – the Vermont of my summers by the lake and my winters in the mountains, and the imaginary Vermont where I swore I would someday live.
My first poem was Fire & Ice, memorized from the pages of my eldest brother’s diary. (Otherwise, it wasn’t very interesting. No offense, Drew… and… uh. Sorry for reading your diary.)
Much later, in college, I flipped through The Complete Works, drifting from poem to poem. When I was lonely or anxious, they were a source of comfort.
He writes for me, speaks to me in the silence & beauty of the North – in crumbling stone walls and bending birches.
Buil Soil: A Political Pastoral is not his best work. It’s rather long. It’s rather of boring. I have no intention of ever memorizing it. But it contains some of the most beautiful fragments in literature.