By Robert Frost
Well to hell with nearly everything –with everything
but poetry politics and true religion – and a few
friends and relations – a very few. And I forgot farming.
I bought a farm for myself for Christmas. One
hundred and fifty three acres in all, fifty in woods.
The house a poor little collage of five rooms, two ordinary
Fireplaces, and one large kitchen fireplace all in one
central chimney as it was in the beginning. The
central chimney is the best part- that and the
woods. You mustn’t be jealous, though jealousy
is a passion I approve of and attribute to angels. May
I be guarded and watched over always by the jealousy
of a strong nature. It is better than arms around the body.
Jealousy alone gives me a sense of beind held. My
farm probably doesn’t compare with yours for a view. But it
looks away north so that you would know you are
in the mountains. We have no trout brook, but there
is a live spring that I am told should be made
into a trout pond. There is a small grove of white
and paper birches doubling daylight. The woods are
a little far from the house. I must bring them
nearer by the power of music like Amphion or
Orpheus. It is an old occupation with me. The
trees have learned that they have to come when I play
them to. I enjoy the power I find I have over them.
You must see us together, the trees dancing obedience
To the poet (so called). You’ll exclaim.
I ain’t going to mention books this time.
(This was a letter written by Frost to Louise Untermeyer in 1929)