• Reunion '64



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    Acquainted With The Night - Poem by Robert Frost


    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.

    I have looked down the saddest city lane.
    I have passed by the watchman on his beat
    And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

    I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
    When far away an interrupted cry
    Came over houses from another street,

    But not to call me back or say good-bye;
    And further still at an unearthly height,
    One luminary clock against the sky

    Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
    I have been one acquainted with the night.

  • Into My Own from A Boy's Will

    Robert Frost, 1915

    Note: in Frost A Literary Life Reconsidered, (1984) William H. Pritchard challenges Frost's assertion that Into My Own is "somehow about going away from 'college.'" That notion is "a pleasant fiction which only the poet and not the poem itself could suggest to us. Yet Frost's effort to give a shape to the whole collection [A Boy's Will] and provide a sort of beginning, a development through various moods, then a turning into new resolution, is of a piece with his attempt to provide such temporal shapes within individual poems."


    One of my wishes is that those dark trees,

    So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,

    Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom,

    But stretched away unto the edge of doom.


    I should not be withheld but that some day

    Into their vastness I should steal away,

    Fearless of ever finding open land,

    Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.


    I do not see why I should e’er turn back,

    Or those should not set forth upon my track

    To overtake me, who should miss me here

    And long to know if still I held them dear.


    They would not find me changed from him they knew—

    Only more sure of all I thought was true.


  • Reunion Banquet

    Our Winning Class!

  • Robert Frost's Vermont

    Frost wrote much of his verse in a log cabin in Ripton in central Vermont... his poems are more than rooted in the state's landscape, they are the landscape: its stony and frugal soil, its sculptured, shimmering green glens bespeaking a timeless and mystical perfection, and its early winter melancholies. Frost's words, like sharpened farm implements, sifted meaning from this both severe and tender physical reality.


    From "Robert Frost's Vermont" by Robert D. Kaplan and published September 1, 1991 in The New York Times.

    At the Robert Frost Cabin



  • We inherited the Golden Age and are passing on something that is materially diminished. -Mark Sandler