Robert Lee Frost.
Born March 26, 1874.
Passed away on January 29, 1963.

The poet of freedom - whose life of 88 years was filled with tragic joy. At times bittersweet, sometimes ironic, or simply marveling at his surroundings, one can also see autobiographical details in Frost’s works. His days were not devoid of tears, though some have thought he was unduly optimistic. His father died when he was ten. His first son, Eliot, died at four. His daughter, Marjorie, married and then died from a childbirth infection. He lived for 25 years after Mrs. Frost died. Five years after her death their other son, Caroli—“who had the seeds of genius in him”—destroyed himself. Another daughter was an invalid.

Robert Frost was not unacquainted with sorrow, but he never tried to be a conqueror of nature, nations, or God. He was a person of power. Instead of cursing God, he joked with him. By laughing at himself, he taught us how to trust. Somehow he had a way of ministering by awakening wisdom in us.

Some say his work is rural and leads folk not to seek to solve complex problems, but only to escape from social responsibility. Perhaps that word is something less than altogether fair. It is true that Robert Frost was neither radical nor conservative.

I never cared to be radical when young
For fear it would make me conservative when old.

Still, he may for all that have been true to life’s classic balance wheel. He was a realist who spoke of a star:

It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To cany praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.

Robert Frost’s poetry hides and reveals the classic motto of universal sanity and health: Never too much! His life shows forth a joyful secret: Love Life without reserve; and be not ashamed to be a swinger of birches.

He was not afraid to live. He was not afraid to die. He had a “lover’s quarrel with the world.”