The Mountain

The Mountain
By Robert Frost

The mountain held the town as in a shadow
I saw so much before I slept there once:
I noticed that I missed stars in the west,
Where its black body cut into the sky.
Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wall
Behind which I was sheltered from a wind.
And yet between the town and it I found,
When I walked forth at dawn to see new things,
Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields.
The river at the time was fallen away,
And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones;
But the signs showed what it had done in spring;
Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grass
Ridges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark.
I crossed the river and swung round the mountain.
And there I met a man who moved so slow
With white-faced oxen in a heavy cart,
It seemed no hand to stop him altogether.
“What town is this?” I asked.
“This? Lunenburg.”
Then I was wrong: the town of my sojourn,
Beyond the bridge, was not that of the mountain,
But only felt at night its shadowy presence.
“Where is your village? Very far from here?”
“There is no village—only scattered farms.
We were but sixty voters last election.
We can’t in nature grow to many more:
That thing takes all the room!” He moved his goad.
The mountain stood there to be pointed at.
Pasture ran up the side a little way,
And then there was a wall of trees with trunks:
After that only tops of trees, and cliffs
Imperfectly concealed among the leaves.
A dry ravine emerged from under boughs
Into the pasture.
“That looks like a path.
Is that the way to reach the top from here?—
Not for this morning, but some other time:
I must be getting back to breakfast now.”
“I don’t advise your trying from this side.
There is no proper path, but those that have
Been up, I understand, have climbed from Ladd’s.
That’s five miles back. You can’t mistake the place:
They logged it there last winter some way up.
I’d take you, but I’m bound the other way.”
“You’ve never climbed it?”
“I’ve been on the sides
Deer-hunting and trout-fishing. There’s a brook
That starts up on it somewhere—I’ve heard say
Right on the top, tip-top—a curious thing.
But what would interest you about the brook,
It’s always cold in summer, warm in winter.
One of the great sights going is to see
It steam in winter like an ox’s breath,
Until the bushes all along its banks
Are inch-deep with the frosty spines and bristles—
You know the kind. Then let the sun shine on it!”
“There ought to be a view around the world
From such a mountain—if it isn’t wooded
Clear to the top.” I saw through leafy screens
Great granite terraces in sun and shadow,
Shelves one could rest a knee on getting up—
With depths behind him sheer a hundred feet;
Or turn and sit on and look out and down,
With little ferns in crevices at his elbow.
“As to that I can’t say. But there’s the spring,
Right on the summit, almost like a fountain.
That ought to be worth seeing.”
“If it’s there.
You never saw it?”
“I guess there’s no doubt
About its being there. I never saw it.
It may not be right on the very top:
It wouldn’t have to be a long way down
To have some head of water from above,
And a good distance down might not be noticed
By anyone who’d come a long way up.
One time I asked a fellow climbing it
To look and tell me later how it was.”
“What did he say?”
“He said there was a lake
Somewhere in Ireland on a mountain top.”
“But a lake’s different. What about the spring?”
“He never got up high enough to see.
That’s why I don’t advise your trying this side.
He tried this side. I’ve always meant to go
And look myself, but you know how it is:
It doesn’t seem so much to climb a mountain
You’ve worked around the foot of all your life.
What would I do? Go in my overalls,
With a big stick, the same as when the cows
Haven’t come down to the bars at milking time?
Or with a shotgun for a stray black bear?
‘Twouldn’t seem real to climb for climbing it.”
“I shouldn’t climb it if I didn’t want to—
Not for the sake of climbing. What’s its name?”
“We call it Hor: I don’t know if that’s right.”
“Can one walk around it? Would it be too far?”
“You can drive round and keep in Lunenburg,
But it’s as much as ever you can do,
The boundary lines keep in so close to it.
Hor is the township, and the township’s Hor—
And a few houses sprinkled round the foot,
Like boulders broken off the upper cliff,
Rolled out a little farther than the rest.”
“Warm in December, cold in June, you say?”
“I don’t suppose the water’s changed at all.
You and I know enough to know it’s warm
Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm.
But all the fun’s in how you say a thing.”
“You’ve lived here all your life?”
“Ever since Hor
Was no bigger than a—” What, I did not hear.
He drew the oxen toward him with light touches
Of his slim goad on nose and offside flank,
Gave them their marching orders and was moving.


About the Poem

Since I had the chance to visit Lake Willoughby this past weekend, I thought it would be fitting to look at one of Robert Frost’s lesser-known but evocative poems, "The Mountain." The poem mentions Mount Hor — one of the two dramatic mountains that rise on either side of Lake Willoughby in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. Having seen the lake and the mountains in person now, I feel even more connected to the scene Frost describes.

Frost’s speaker begins by describing the imposing presence of the mountain over the town, how it casts a shadow and seems to shelter him. There’s awe in the way the mountain “holds” the town — almost like a guardian — yet it also looms, cutting out stars from view. When the speaker climbs the mountain in search of its supposed secret, he discovers that the mountain doesn’t really do anything except stand there. There is no magical spring at its summit, no hidden source of the river — water comes from elsewhere.

This poem has always struck me as a quiet meditation on human expectations versus reality. We often assume that something as grand as a mountain must contain secrets or power. But the truth is simpler — the mountain’s presence itself is its gift. It doesn’t need to justify its existence with hidden springs or mystical origins.

Standing along the shores of Lake Willoughby, looking up at Mount Hor and its neighbor Mount Pisgah rising sharply from the water’s edge, I thought of Frost’s insight: sometimes, beauty and meaning are not about what a place gives us, but about what it is.

Have you ever visited a place that made you feel that way — where its presence alone was enough?


About the Poet

Robert Frost (1874–1963) was one of America’s most celebrated poets, renowned for his depictions of rural life, his mastery of conversational language, and his profound observations on nature and human experience. Though he was born in California, Frost’s literary identity is deeply tied to New England, where he lived for much of his life.

Vermont, in particular, features prominently in his work. He lived for many years in Shaftsbury, Vermont, and his poetry captures the landscapes, seasons, and rhythms of New England life — its mountains, woods, fields, and quiet towns. Poems like The Mountain reflect his sensitivity to the Vermont landscape and his ability to see both its grandeur and its simplicity.