From his hidden seat on a cattle-kept slope, the speaker can watch two human destinations at once: the white homes of the living and, on the opposite hill, the graves of the dead. He goes there at dawn when he wants to move from the forest back toward mankind, but not all the way into it. Tucked among junipers, unseen, he enjoys observing without being drawn in. If by noon the sight of houses and graves becomes too much, he simply turns toward the sun-burned hillside beside him. His breathing stirs a small bluet, he smells soil and bruised plants, and he studies an ant’s crater. The mood is quiet, self-sufficient, and a little wry. Frost makes the vantage point feel like a negotiable border—not quite escape, but a place where both nature and human concerns can be kept at arm’s length.
The Vantage Point — Summary
If tired of trees I seek again mankind, Well I know where to hie me--in the dawn, To a slope where the cattle keep the lawn. There amid lolling juniper reclined, Myself unseen, I see in white defined Far off the homes of men, and farther still, The graves of men on an opposing hill, Living or dead, whichever are to mind.
And if by noon I have too much of these, I have but to turn on my arm, and lo, The sun-burned hillside sets my face aglow, My breathing shakes the bluet like a breeze, I smell the earth, I smell the bruisèd plant, I look into the crater of the ant.