She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To everything on earth the compass round,
And only by one’s going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.
- Robert Frost
I like this poem quite a bit, because of course the tent is the poem itself, and that is a lovely idea. It is remarkable to me that, as cliched as a sonnet to an unidentified woman is, Frost seems to renew it, simply in the elegance of his construction. The sonnet is one sentence: “She is…” Realizing all of the constraints Frost placed upon himself, and still managed to make it flow, the poem seems like one-in-a-million. How often do miracles like these come along?
Just poking around the blogs — I love this poem too. Isn’t that first line just lovely? “She is as in a field a silken tent.” This is one of Frost’s poems where I think he is so deft, so SNEAKY with his rhyme and meter. It seems effortless, secondary — it is a marvel.