As for the Analysis of the Frost Poem, I seem to have developed a block against taking care of it. So, forget about it for now. If I ever return to it, you'll see the result here.

Here's an offhand thought I had in my blog entry today: there are basically three sorts of lyric poetry: happy nod poetry, ooo poetry, and resolved clang poetry. Lovers of the first two want clangless poems that make them sigh, "Oh, yes, that's just the way I feel," or "Oh, yes, that's just what I think," or gurgle, "Ooo, what a pretty scene or lady or flower arrangement or whatever." Lovers of the third want a poem to clang royally wrong, then (with some effort on their part) correct itself into a . . . blissimingly rich lyricule, or lyrical pay-off, usually a complex set of interrelating sensual images--which is to say, it will generally also be an ooo poem, a delayed ooo poem. (Yes, a poem can be more than one kind of poem though only rarely will it not be most one kind; a poem, unfortunately, can also be none of the three kinds.)

Nothing wrong with the first two kinds, but I prefer the latter.

The two principal ways a poem clangs wrong is by going radically off-course in some way, or by keeping too tediously on-course. "Lighght," for instance goes radically off-course in spelling, "old pond; and the sound of a frog/ splashing in" stays too tediously on-course. Why, in the first case, one instinctively flares, is "lighght" misspelled? In the second: what could possibly be the poetic point of telling us about some frog any pond would have that does what all frogs often do? Those capable of appreciating such works will instinctively answer their instinctive questions almost immediately into lyricules (or lyrical pay-offs), the first a metaphoric coherence followed by growing awareness of its archetypal ramifications, the second of the tension of an array of dichotomies followed by growing awareness of their interrelated archetypal ramifications.