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.
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.
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's 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.
Some thoughts…
On the poet - Robert Frost (1874-1963) was one of America’s most acclaimed poets. In his lifetime he received four Pulitzer Prizes for poetry in 1924, 1931, 1937, and, 1943. Often set in rural New England, his poetry’s simple language belied the deep philosophical and social issues they discussed.
On this poem – This beautiful little poem is so simple, that it can be found even in middle grade text books. A man rides his horse into the woods on a winter evening, and is enthralled by the beauty around him. The woods entice him, inviting him to venture further in, but he has to regretfully return to his promised obligations.
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.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
The lovely, dark woods refer to the appeal of the great Unknown that is Death. With reluctance, he has to turn away from the promise of eternal rest to fulfill the mundane duties of life.
On a personal note – I find it odd that when commentators discuss this poem, they make frequent mention of its ‘dark’ undertones. Frost was someone who faced many personal tragedies, and repeated loss lessens the sweetness that we attach to life. Even someone who is neither suicidal nor depressive may still think of Death with wonder, curiosity, and yes, even longing. I would think that a true poet is one who sees possibilities for poetry in Death as well as Life. It’s a topic worth exploring in March.
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