My father didn't care for Robert Frost:

Something about his rhythms Seemed too offhand, conversational. He preferred a different beat, Measures he could set his feet to, Uplifting phrases to repeat. They memorized a lot of poems when my mother went to school. I used to marvel at the way she'd quote. Then, childishly, resist such ``quaint,'' old-fashioned rote. I wish now I had been required To know by heart for later time, The verses that I had to take apart, -- Dissecting meter, symbol, imagery, and rhyme; To bring to instant use when I am mired, More than a line or two About how birches bend and toss; Or recollect, to comfort loss, those snowy evening woods, A road forsaken, or a brook Whose bridge was like an arm that's flung across; Because I love the casual eloquence of Frost; And long for quick recall of cadences I've lost, The way my parents could restore at will The oft-remembered ``golden host,'' Or that fateful day at Bunker Hill.

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