Out, out by Robert Frost - A page from my literary past

When I say literary past, I do not mean that I ever had, in the past, anything to do with the authorship of works of literature. Rather, I mean my study into and appreciation of works of literature. 

At some point in my high school career, I had the opportunity to take a class of English literature. It was beyond any doubt, by far, the best class I had ever taken, or have taken since. That class meant a lot to me for many reasons, many of which I did not realise that the time. Not least because it opened up to me the genius that was William Shakespeare. Whether or not William Shakespeare the person, was actually also William Shakespeare the bard and responsible for the body of works not accredited to that name, is beside the point. It is the body of works which I love, and the mind of its creator, whatever his name may have been. 

Our teacher, stained though his reputation may have been by rumours and hearsay, not only recognised the individuality of every person in the class (there were only five of us), he also encouraged us in this individuality. In my memory, he listened fondly as we confessed to some quirk or other, never demanding of us to mask our differences and to conform. As we explored the poems and prose he lay before us, I realise now, we were exploring ourselves. For surely how we interpret the words before us, the picture that those words create in our minds depends entirely on who we are, what we though, how we think and how we feel. And while I did not realise this at the time, this I cherished. In that class, for the first time in my life, I was me. I thrived in the class, and loved it. My only regret is that I never told my teacher how much the class meant to me. I hope that somehow he knew. 

While many years have passed, some of the pieces we studied in that class have stayed with me. This is one of them.

Out, out - by Robert Frost
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,