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.

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.

-Robert Frost

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.

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