Sunday, July 19, 2009

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost


Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

"New Hampshire"
1923

This esoteric conceit clumsily conceived by Ron Southern at 4:36 PM
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1 comment:

  1. Ron Southern7/19/2009 8:43 PM

    This is a poem I heard and read so often in my youth that I grew puking-sick of it! Now enough decades have passed that it's pleasant to see it again and of course to reflect on it in a different way.

    ReplyDelete

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)

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