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Question
Can there be a good reason behind staying silent when everybody is talking?
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Solution
Yes, sometimes people keep on arguing unnecessarily out of their ignorance of the entire and actual situation. In Such situations, a wise man would stay silent.
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Read the poem silently.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
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Somewhere ages and ages hence:
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And that has made all the difference.
About the Poet
Robert Frost (1874-1963) was born in San Franscisco, Frost spent most of his adult
life in rural New England and his laconic language and emphasis on individualism in
his poetry reflect this region. He attended Dartmouth and Harvard but never earned a
degree. As a young man with a growing family he attempted to write poetry while
working on a farm and teaching in a school. American editors rejected his submitted
poems. With considerable pluck Frost moved his family to England in 1912 and the
following year, a London publisher brought out his first book. After publishing a
second book, Frost returned to America determined to win a reputation in his own
country, which he gradually achieved. He became one of the country's best-loved
poets. Unlike his contemporaries, Frost chose not to experiment with the new verse
forms but to employ traditional patterns, or as he said, he chose "the old-fashioned
way to be new." Despite the surface cheerfulness and descriptive accuracy of his
poems, he often presents a dark, sober vision of life, and there is a defined thoughtful
quality to his work which makes it unique.
The black man's face bespoke revenge
As the fire passed from his sight.
For all he saw in his stick of wood
Was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of this forlorn group
Did nought except for gain.
Giving only to those who gave
Was how he played the game.
Their logs held tight in death's still hands
Was proof of human sin.
They didn't die from the cold without
They died from the cold within.
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Who will buy these delicate, bright
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Lustrous tokens of radiant lives,
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We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children. Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits. And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe^ and when your children’s children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts’that once filled them and still lover this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone.
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