Thursday, December 19, 2013

Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"

    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.
A seasonal poem to accompany this article about "a selfish, egomaniacal, dour, cruel, and angry man" who is deservedly "the most famous American poet—and not just the most famous, but the best-loved, the one who seemed to embody all that America liked most about itself" — Extracting the Woodchuck.

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