The Gift Outright

The land was ours before we were the land's.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England's, still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding made us weak
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become.

by Robert Frost

Comments (8)

That pierces through the glass like a betrayer and peeling like onions by nail this provokes thought. This poem is very brilliantly and excellently penned...10
This poem has a coiled intensity which you kept tightening rather than releasing. I felt the tension grow in me as I read. Of the many comments that probed the motives and meanings behind the poem I think A. Sears had it right when he said, THERE'S TRUTH IN PAIN. Two things stand out for me: The tears you shed are real tears caused by the cut, not the false tears of slicing onions; you press on despite the pain. The speaker accepts this degree of suffering instead of running away from it. I don't know why, but I know she has that courage of persistence.
brilliant and captivating poetry this, i enjoyed the read.
Met this one about 2 years ago, suddenly remembered it last night, re-visited it just now...and have fallen in love with it all over again. It is mystical, deep, and, above all, beautiful. Love, Gina.
Ouch, to cut my finger... Pain and blood spills and does longly stay and linger. To give my sliced appendaged digit a much needed bath... I won't cook for a living, or go to school for typing or even take math. Math and onions i do not like... I'd rather have a tooth pulled or be super glued to a seatless one peddled down hill travelling brakeless bike. I'll only eat onions that are totally cooked...I wont go to a restaurant and look on a menue to oder it from the waitress, it will never be booked. Good poem and God bless-Mike Gale.
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