Brown's Descent

by Robert Frost

　　

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[orThe Willy-Nilly Slide]Brown lived at such a lofty farmThat everyone for miles could seeHis lantern when he did his choresIn winter after half-past three. And many must have seen him makeHis wild descent from there one night,’Cross lots, ’cross walls, ’cross everything,Describing rings of lantern light. Between the house and barn the galeGot him by something he had onAnd blew him out on the icy crustThat cased the world, and he was gone! Walls were all buried, trees were few:He saw no stay unless he stoveA hole in somewhere with his heel.But though repeatedly he strove And stamped and said things to himself,And sometimes something seemed to yield,He gained no foothold, but pursuedHis journey down from field to field. Sometimes he came with arms outspreadLike wings, revolving in the sceneUpon his longer axis, andWith no small dignity of mien. Faster or slower as he chanced,Sitting or standing as he chose,According as he feared to riskHis neck, or thought to spare his clothes, He never let the lantern drop.And some exclaimed who saw afarThe figures he described with it,“I wonder what those signals are Brown makes at such an hour of night!He’s celebrating something strange.I wonder if he’s sold his farm,Or been made Master of the Grange.” He reeled, he lurched, he bobbed, he checked;He fell and made the lantern rattle(But saved the light from going out.)So half-way down he fought the battle Incredulous of his own bad luck.And then becoming reconciledTo everything, he gave it upAnd came down like a coasting child. “Well––I––be––” that was all he said,As standing in the river road,He looked back up the slippery slope(Two miles it was) to his abode. Sometimes as an authorityOn motor-cars, I’m asked if IShould say our stock was petered out,And this is my sincere reply: Yankees are what they always were.Don’t think Brown ever gave up hopeOf getting home again becauseHe couldn’t climb that slippery slope; Or even thought of standing thereUntil the January thawShould take the polish off the crust.He bowed with grace to natural law, And then went round it on his feet,After the manner of our stock;Not much concerned for those to whom,At that particular time o’clock, It must have looked as if the courseHe steered was really straight awayFrom that which he was headed for––Not much concerned for them, I say; No more so than became a man––And politician at odd seasons.I’ve kept Brown standing in the coldWhile I invested him with reasons; But now he snapped his eyes three times;Then shook his lantern, saying, “Ile’s’Bout out!” and took the long way homeBy road, a matter of several miles.

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