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.
These 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.
I wrote this down from memory. Haven’t thought of Robert Frost in a while, actually…
I’m curious about the mistakes I made. Thanks, Kim Rosen, for the suggestion that what I forget allows me deeper intimacy with both the poem and myself!
I wrote village instead of farmhouse. Feeling into that… I’ve always thought of myself as a city guy, though this may be changing.
I also wrote “coldest evening” instead of “darkest evening,” which totally makes sense. Many bodily sensations I can handle: hunger, tiredness, anything. Cold gets to me. Easily. So it’s interesting that my mind would bring it up.