On Re-Reading My Complete Frost

I’ve walked with Frost in the Yellow Wood
And later watched it fill with Snow.
Upon the Hills of View I’ve stood
And seen the farms spread out below.

I’ve seen that Snow go all downhill
To fill a swift West-Running Brook,
Seen Birches bent by a Boy’s Will
Across the pages of my book.

To see how deep I could look in,
I’ve stood on Beaches continent-backed
‘Til Truth seemed to have broken in
With all her playful Matter of Fact.

To hear the Poem as it was printed,
To see the picture beneath the paint,
I’ve tried to take the Hints that’s hinted
And not take any of them that ain’t.