FROST POETRY ANALYSIS
DIRECTIONS: Complete the TP-CASTT analysis chart for your group poem. You only need one paper per group, but you
are all responsible for presenting your poem to the class. You each must speak and contribute to the presentation.
TP-CASTT –an acronym for title, paraphrase, connotation, attitude, shift, title (again), and theme—is designed to help
you remember the concepts you can consider when examining a poem. This is not a lockstep sequential approach, but
rather it is a fluid process in which you will move back and forth, among the various concepts. For example, in examining
connotations of a line, you may also notice a shift, which in turn may give you an insight into theme.
Title (before reading)
Although titles are often keys to possible meanings of a poem, students frequently do not contemplate them either before
or after reading poetry. As a first step in the analysis of a new poem, look at the title and predict what the poem may be
about.
Paraphrase
Another aspect of a poem often neglected by students is the literal meaning—the “plot.” Frequently, real understanding
of a poem must evolve from comprehension of “what’s going on in the poem.” Try to restate a poem in your own words,
focusing on one syntactical unit at a time—not necessarily on one line at a time. Another possibility is to write a sentence
or two for each stanza of the poem.
Connotation
Although this term usually refers solely to the emotional overtones of word choice, here it indicates that you should
examine any and all poetic devices, focusing on how such devices contribute to the meaning, the effect, or both of a
poem. You may consider figurative language (especially simile, metaphor, and personification), symbolism, diction, point
of view, and sound devices (alliteration, onomatopoeia, rhythm, and rhyme).
As you develop the skill of looking carefully at new pieces of poetry, your teacher will become less active in the process.
You will not only find the devices but also discuss how they create meaning. What is important is not that you are able to
identify poetic devices so much as that you can explain how the devices enhance meaning and effect.
Attitude (Tone)
Having examined the poem’s devices and clues closely, you are now ready to explore the multiple attitudes that may be
present in the poem. Examination of diction, images, and details suggests the speaker’s attitude toward the subject and
contributes to understanding.
Shift (Progression)
Rarely does a poet begin and end the poetic experience in the same place. As is true of most of us, the poet’s
understanding of an experience is a gradual realization, and the poem is a reflection of that epiphany. Consequently,
your discovery of the movement is critical to your understanding of the poem. One way to help you arrive at an
understanding of a poem is to trace the changing feelings of the speaker from the beginning to the end, paying particular
attention to the conclusion.
The discovery of shift can be facilitated if you watch for the following:
Key words (but, yet, however, although)
Stanza divisions
Irony (sometimes irony hides shifts)
Changes in sound that may indicate changes in meaning
Punctuation (dashes, periods, colons, ellipsis)
Changes in line or stanza length or both
Effect of structure on meaning
Changes in diction (slang to formal language)
Title (after reading)
Examine the title again, this time on an interpretive level.
Theme
In identifying theme, you will recognize the human experience, motivation, or condition suggested by the poem. One
way for you to arrive at this is, first summarize the “plot” of the poem in a paragraph (in writing or orally); next, list the
subject or subjects of the poem (moving from literal subjects to abstract concepts such as death, war, discovery); then,
determine what the poet is saying about each subject and write a complete sentence. You have then identified theme.
POEM:
TITLE
(BEFORE
READING)
PARAPHRASE
CONNOTATION
ATTITUDE
(TONE)
SHIFT
(PROGRESSION)
TITLE
(AFTER
READING)
THEME
AUTHOR:
“Birches” by Robert Frost
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are
bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
“Mending Wall” by Robert Frost
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
“Nothing Gold can Stay” by Robert Frost
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
“A Time to Talk” by Robert Frost
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.
“Fire and Ice” by Robert Frost
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
“Design” by Robert Frost
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth-Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches’ broth-A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?-If design govern in a thing so small.
“Neither Out Far Nor In Deep” by Robert Frost
The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.
As long as it takes to pass
A ship keeps raising its hull;
The wetter ground like glass
Reflects a standing gull.
The land may vary more;
But wherever the truth may be--The water comes ashore,
And the people look at the sea.
They cannot look out far.
They cannot look in deep.
But when was that ever a bar
To any watch they keep?
“Once by the Pacific” by Robert Frost
The shattered water made a misty din.
Great waves looked over others coming in,
And thought of doing something to the shore
That water never did to land before.
The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
You could not tell, and yet it looked as if
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent;
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God's last Put out the Light was spoken.