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.
- Robert Frost
4 comments:
how strange I was only reading this very poem a few days ago when serching for christmas poems
Three trees constitute a wood in northern Illinois.
Yes...well, the rest of the "woods" are hidden in fog. But in northern Illinois with a gajillion acres of corn and soybeans fields, anything more than two is a "woods". HA.
Found your blog through bighappyfunhouse. I like your style. :) And I love this picture and the accompanying poem is beautiful. The picture is darkly cold and haunting.
Post a Comment