Blueberries

By Robert Frost

“Blueberries” is Robert Frost’s 1914 dialogue poem in which a couple plan to pick the wild blueberries that have sprung up in a neighbor’s burned-over pasture, before a big local family gets to them first. Its 105 lines appeared in North of Boston, and unlike most of that book, the poem rhymes, in a bouncing four-beat rhythm.

Our reading: it is a comedy about who owns what nobody planted. The landowner doesn’t care, the Lorens claim the berries by custom and need, and the couple claim them by discovery. The closing image, “a vision for thieves,” admits that no one’s claim is much better than anyone else’s.

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Summary · The Poem · Background · Analysis and Themes · Form and Technique · Notable Lines · Themes · FAQ
Glossary · Related Poems

Summary

One speaker reports huge, ripe blueberries in Mortenson’s pasture, where the woods were cut and the land burned two years before. The other explains that blueberries always spring up after the pines go and a fire clears the ground. Talk turns to Loren, a neighbor who feeds a large family on wild berries and once politely pretended not to know where any grew, and the couple resolve to pick in Mortenson’s pasture the next morning.

Along the way, one speaker remembers how they used to pick berries together years ago. The poem ends with the expectation that the Lorens will be there too, and with a last picture of the fruit shining in the rain.

The Poem

The text below follows the first edition of North of Boston (London: David Nutt, 1914), which prints the poem as one unbroken block with no stanza breaks between speakers.

“You ought to have seen what I saw on my way
To the village, through Mortenson’s pasture to-day:
Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,
Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum
In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!
And all ripe together, not some of them green
And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!”
“I don’t know what part of the pasture you mean.”
“You know where they cut off the woods—let me see—
It was two years ago—or no!—can it be
No longer than that?—and the following fall
The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall.”
“Why, there hasn’t been time for the bushes to grow.
That’s always the way with the blueberries, though:
There may not have been the ghost of a sign
Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine,
But get the pine out of the way, you may burn
The pasture all over until not a fern
Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick,
And presto, they’re up all around you as thick
And hard to explain as a conjuror’s trick.”
“It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit.
I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot.
And after all really they’re ebony skinned:
The blue’s but a mist from the breath of the wind,
A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand,
And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned.”
“Does Mortenson know what he has, do you think?”
“He may and not care and so leave the chewink
To gather them for him—you know what he is.
He won’t make the fact that they’re rightfully his
An excuse for keeping us other folk out.”
“I wonder you didn’t see Loren about.”
“The best of it was that I did. Do you know,
I was just getting through what the field had to show
And over the wall and into the road,
When who should come by, with a democrat-load
Of all the young chattering Lorens alive,
But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive.”
“He saw you, then? What did he do? Did he frown?”
“He just kept nodding his head up and down.
You know how politely he always goes by.
But he thought a big thought—I could tell by his eye—
Which being expressed, might be this in effect:
‘I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect,
To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.’”
“He’s a thriftier person than some I could name.”
“He seems to be thrifty; and hasn’t he need,
With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed?
He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say,
Like birds. They store a great many away.
They eat them the year round, and those they don’t eat
They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet.”
“Who cares what they say? It’s a nice way to live,
Just taking what Nature is willing to give,
Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow.”
“I wish you had seen his perpetual bow—
And the air of the youngsters! Not one of them turned,
And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.”
“I wish I knew half what the flock of them know
Of where all the berries and other things grow,
Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top
Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop.
I met them one day and each had a flower
Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower;
Some strange kind—they told me it hadn’t a name.”
“I’ve told you how once not long after we came,
I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth
By going to him of all people on earth
To ask if he knew any fruit to be had
For the picking. The rascal, he said he’d be glad
To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad.
There had been some berries—but those were all gone.
He didn’t say where they had been. He went on:
‘I’m sure—I’m sure’—as polite as could be.
He spoke to his wife in the door, ‘Let me see,
Mame, we don’t know any good berrying place?’
It was all he could do to keep a straight face.
“If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him,
He’ll find he’s mistaken. See here, for a whim,
We’ll pick in the Mortensons’ pasture this year.
We’ll go in the morning, that is, if it’s clear,
And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet.
It’s so long since I picked I almost forget
How we used to pick berries: we took one look round,
Then sank out of sight like trolls underground,
And saw nothing more of each other, or heard,
Unless when you said I was keeping a bird
Away from its nest, and I said it was you.
‘Well, one of us is.’ For complaining it flew
Around and around us. And then for a while
We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile,
And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout
Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out,
For when you made answer, your voice was as low
As talking—you stood up beside me, you know.”
“We sha’n’t have the place to ourselves to enjoy—
Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy.
They’ll be there to-morrow, or even to-night.
They won’t be too friendly—they may be polite—
To people they look on as having no right
To pick where they’re picking. But we won’t complain.
You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain,
The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves,
Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves.”

Background

Frost, born in San Francisco on March 26, 1874, grew up in New England and farmed in Derry, New Hampshire, from 1900 to 1911. In 1912, he moved his family to England, where his first two books were published. North of Boston, his second, came out in London from David Nutt in 1914, and Henry Holt published the American edition in 1915.

Frost dedicated the book to his wife, Elinor, as “this book of people.” Most of its poems are dramatic monologues and dialogues in blank verse about New England farm life. “Blueberries” is one of the few that rhyme, and its quick, jingling rhythm sets it apart from somber pieces such as “Home Burial” and “The Death of the Hired Man.”

Analysis and Themes

The poem looks like a chat about fruit, but almost every speech is about a claim: who found the berries, who owns them, and who has the right to pick them. Frost keeps the tone light, and the sections below follow how the jokes uncover a small, very human contest.

Fire Makes the Crop

The berries exist because of destruction. The woods were cut, and then “The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall.” Lines 13 to 21 explain the paradox: under the pines there is not “the ghost of a sign” of blueberries, but once the trees go and the ground burns, the bushes appear “as thick / And hard to explain as a conjuror’s trick.” The first speaker even jokes that they taste of soot and that the famous blue is only a powdery bloom over fruit that is really “ebony skinned.” Renewal, here, feeds on loss.

Three Claims to the Same Berries

Mortenson owns the pasture, but “He may and not care,” and he will not use the fact that the berries are “rightfully his” to keep others out. The Lorens have the strongest practical claim: they live on wild fruit, eat it all year, and sell it for shoes. The couple’s claim rests on discovery, and on a whim. Each party treats the berries as more theirs than anyone else’s, and none of them planted a single bush.

Loren’s Politeness Is a Defense

Loren is the poem’s comic center. He nods, bows, and keeps “his perpetual bow” while his children sit in the wagon, solemn and alert. When the couple once asked him where to find berries, he answered with elaborate courtesy, “I’m sure—I’m sure,” and turned to his wife to ask whether they knew “any good berrying place.” His manners are a way of guarding his family’s living, and the speaker admits it was all Loren could do “to keep a straight face.”

The Couple Envy What They Admire

The speakers praise the Lorens’ life, “Just taking what Nature is willing to give,” and envy their knowledge of where every berry grows. In the same breath they plan to beat the Lorens to Mortenson’s pasture. The teasing line “He’s a thriftier person than some I could name” suggests the couple know their own motives are not quite pure.

The Memory Inside the Plan

The longest speech (lines 79 to 96) starts as a scheme and becomes a memory of picking together: sinking out of sight “like trolls underground,” arguing over which of them was scaring a bird from its nest, and one shouting for the other, only to find the other was standing right beside them. The berries are an excuse for time together. That is why the final picture of fruit and rain, “Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves,” feels affectionate rather than guilty.

Form and Technique

The poem has 105 lines with no stanza breaks; the change of speaker is shown only by quotation marks. That layout makes the talk run together, so readers have to listen for who is speaking, much as one would overhear a real conversation.

The meter is anapestic tetrameter: four beats per line, usually with two light syllables before each stress, as in “you OUGHT to have SEEN what i SAW on my WAY.” This galloping rhythm belongs to comic verse and ballads, and it gives the dialogue its high spirits.

The lines rhyme in couplets, with several triplets that add a little flourish: thumb, drum, and come (lines 3 to 5); stick, thick, and trick (lines 19 to 21); and had, glad, and bad (lines 70 to 72). Frost bends the meter to fit natural speech, with dashes, interruptions, and second thoughts, which is what he called the “sound of sense.”

Notable Lines

These passages show the poem’s humor, its rural knowledge, and its quiet warmth.

“You ought to have seen what I saw on my way
To the village, through Mortenson’s pasture to-day:
Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,
Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum
In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!
And all ripe together, not some of them green
And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!”

Lines 1 to 7

The opening is pure excitement: exclamation marks, a drumming pail, and the delight of finding all the berries ripe at once. It sets the bouncing rhythm for the whole poem.

But get the pine out of the way, you may burn
The pasture all over until not a fern
Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick,
And presto, they’re up all around you as thick
And hard to explain as a conjuror’s trick.”

Lines 17 to 21

The second speaker’s practical knowledge has a touch of wonder in it. Destruction clears the way for plenty, and the result seems like a magic trick.

‘I’m sure—I’m sure’—as polite as could be.
He spoke to his wife in the door, ‘Let me see,
Mame, we don’t know any good berrying place?’
It was all he could do to keep a straight face.

Lines 75 to 78

Loren’s polite evasion, staged for his wife and the visitors at once, is the funniest moment in the poem.

You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain,
The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves,
Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves.”

Lines 103 to 105

Right after promising not to complain about the Lorens, the speaker dissolves the rivalry into a picture of beauty. The word “thieves” turns the joke on everyone, the speakers included.

Themes

Four ideas run beneath the poem’s light talk.

Renewal after destruction. The crop exists because the woods were cut and burned, and the poem treats that as one of nature’s ordinary wonders.

Ownership and wild bounty. Legal title, custom, need, and discovery all compete for fruit that no one planted, and the poem never settles who is right.

Neighbors and newcomers. The couple are outsiders watching a local family who know the land far better, and their admiration is mixed with rivalry.

Marriage and memory. Planning the outing leads one speaker back to an earlier day of picking together, the poem’s most tender passage.

Frequently Asked Questions

These are the questions readers most often ask about the poem.

What Is “Blueberries” by Robert Frost About?

It is about a couple planning to pick wild blueberries that have sprung up in a neighbor’s burned-over pasture. As they talk, the poem turns into a gentle comedy about who has the right to wild fruit: the landowner, the local family who live on berries, or the newcomers who just found them.

Who Are the Speakers in “Blueberries”?

They are two unnamed speakers, almost certainly a husband and wife who have not lived in the area long. One mentions going to Loren “not long after we came,” and later recalls the two of them picking berries together and losing sight of each other in the bushes.

Why Do the Blueberries Grow After a Fire?

Because fire clears away the shade that kept them down. In lines 13 to 21, the second speaker explains that blueberries hide under the pines, but once the trees are cut and the pasture burns, the bushes come up thick, which matches how wild lowbush blueberries really thrive in open, burned ground.

Who Is Loren in “Blueberries”?

Loren is a local father who raises a large family partly on wild berries, which they eat and also sell to buy shoes. He is endlessly polite, but when the couple once asked him where to find berries, he pretended not to know, so the speakers see the Lorens as friendly rivals for the same fruit.

What Is a Chewink?

A chewink is the eastern towhee, a ground-feeding songbird of eastern North America named for its call. In line 29, the speaker jokes that Mortenson may simply leave his berries for the birds.

Glossary

These rural words may need explaining for modern readers.

• conjuror (line 21): A magician who performs tricks.
• ebony (line 24): Deep black, like the dark wood of the ebony tree.
• chewink (line 29): The eastern towhee, a ground-feeding songbird named for its call.
• democrat-load (line 37): A wagonload; a democrat wagon was a light farm wagon with two or more seats.
• harrow (line 56): A frame of spikes or disks dragged over plowed ground to break up the soil.
• crop (line 63): To bear fruit or ripen.
• Mame (line 77): A nickname for Mary, here Loren’s wife.

Related Poems

These poems share Frost’s farm country, his talking voices, or his eye for harvest.

• Mending Wall by Robert Frost: The opening poem of North of Boston, another wry look at neighbors and property lines.
• The Death of the Hired Man by Robert Frost: A husband and wife talking over a neighbor’s fate, in the book’s more serious register.
• After Apple-Picking by Robert Frost: A harvest poem from the same book, where abundance brings weariness instead of delight.
• To Autumn by John Keats: The classic poem of ripeness and plenty, without the rivalry.