Deerfield Farm at the edge of dusk this winter solstice
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost 1874–1963
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.
I can't help but love Robert Frost. Who cannot help but love him...his words are just as though
he's read my very thoughts and feelings, even before I knew I thought them or felt them... and puts into words the quiet ache of so much wonder and beauty in our world.~
God bless Robert Frost