"Reluctance" is the one poem I might say I wish I had written myself. (OK, "Acquainted with the Night", too, maybe. How may times have I said to myself "I have walked out in rain, and back in rain" ... but how hard it is, now, to outwalk every city light.) But the one line of Frost that I come back to (even more than "but he turned first", even more than "but here there are no cows") is: "it hit the moon".
I’ll sit and see if that small sailing cloud
Will hit or miss the moon.”
It hit the moon.
Then there were three there, making a dim row,
The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.I won't tell you now why I think of those lines so often--I mean, what I so often think of when I think of those lines--I mean, where I was when those lines first came to mind, when I looked out the window, and there was the moon, and the small sailing clouds. But whenever I think of inevitability, I think of that, sitting in that small room, thinking of those lines of Frost. I think of that when I stand on that small rock, jutting into the water, and I see the line of light, the line above which there is the yellow light in the green leaves, rising through the trees.
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