Robert Frost, American poet, is one of my favorites. He wrote this, not on a snowy evening, but in the blazing heat of a summer morning, when he was in the midst of writing a book. He dropped it temporarily and jotted down this masterpiece.
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.
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- This stone house was built in 1729, and was historic when Frost bought it in 1920.
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- One can imagine the woods outside his door looking like this.
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- Frost said of his wife, “Pretty much every one of my poems will be found to be about her if rightly read.”
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- Kennedy was a huge fan of Frost’s work, and presented him with the Congressional Medal of Honor in 1962.
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- Shaftsbury, VT on a crisp fall day.
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- Leaves aching for poetry.
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- One of Frost’s typewriters.
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- The woods are still wild surrounding his home.
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- Frost and his wife are buried in nearby Bennington, VT. His epitaph, “I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.”
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