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               ÀÚÀÛ³ª¹«                          Birches

               °¡Áö ¾ÊÀº ±æ                     The Road Not Taken

               â°¡ÀÇ ³ª¹«                     Tree At My Window

               ´« ³»¸®´Â Àú³á ½£°¡¿¡¼­   Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
                                                              
               ¹ã¿¡ Àͼ÷ÇØÁö¸ç

               ºÒ°ú ¾óÀ½
 

ÀÚÀÛ³ª¹«
 
             - ·Î¹öÆ® ÇÁ·Î½ºÆ®


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ÀÚÀÛ³ª¹« Èçµå´Â À̺¸´Ù ÈξÀ ¸øÇÏ°Ô »ì ¼öµµ ÀÖÀ¸´Ï±î.



Birches

                 - 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.


Ice-storms do that. 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-coloured

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 wilfully 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.
 


°¡Áö ¾ÊÀº ±æ

                 - ·Î¹öÆ® ÇÁ·Î½ºÆ®


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±×°ÍÀÌ ³» ÀλýÀ» ÀÌó·³ ¹Ù²ã ³õÀº °ÍÀÔ´Ï´Ù" ¶ó°í



The Road not Taken

                 - Robert Frost


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, 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,

I doubted if I should ever come back.


I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.
 


â°¡ÀÇ ³ª¹«

                   - ·Î¹öÆ® ÇÁ·Î½ºÆ®


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Tree at My Window

                       - Robert Frost


Tree at my window, window tree,

My sash is lowered when night comes on;

But let there never be curtain drawn

Between you and me.


Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,

And thing next most diffuse to cloud,

Not all your light tongues talking aloud

Could be profound.


But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,

And if you have seen me when I slept,

You have seen me when I was taken and swept

And all but lost.


That day she put our heads together,

Fate had her imagination about her,

Your head so much concerned with outer,

Mine with inner, weather.

 

´« ³»¸®´Â Àú³á ½£°¡¿¡ ¼­¼­

                     - ·Î¹öÆ® ÇÁ·Î½ºÆ®


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ÀÚ±â Àü¿¡ °¡¾ß ÇÒ ±æÀÌ ÀÖ´Ù.



Stopping By Woods On A Snowy

             Evening - Robert Frost


Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.


My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.


He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.


The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

 

¹ã¿¡ Àͼ÷ÇìÁö¸ç

               - ·Î¹öÆ® ÇÁ·Î½ºÆ®


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               - ·Î¹öÆ® ÇÁ·Î½ºÆ®


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  ¶Ç ¾î¶² »ç¶÷Àº ¾óÀ½À¸·Î ³¡³­´Ù°í ¸»ÇÑ´Ù.

  ³»°¡ ¸À º» ¿å¸Á¿¡ ºñÃç º¸¸é
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  ÆÄ±«ÇÏ´Â µ¥´Â ¾óÀ½µµ

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  ³ª´Â Áõ¿À¿¡ ´ëÇØ¼­µµ ÃæºÐÈ÷ ¾Ë°í ÀÖ´Ù°í »ý°¢ÇÑ´Ù.

  ±×¸®°í ±×·¸°Ô ¸»ÇÏ´Â °É·Î ÃæºÐÇÏ´Ù
 

 

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