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. ~Robert Frost
We had to memorize many poems in grade school. I never cared much for them. I think this may have been the first one that made a real impression on me. At the time, I lived where there was much snow. I often rode horseback in that snow. I felt that I knew what it had been like to sit in the near-silence, observing the woods of the man who lived so far away that he would never know. I could hear the faint creak of leather, see the horse asking, "Hey - are we really doing something useful, here?"
I didn't know what Robert Frost had thought when he wrote the poem, but surely, I thought, the darkest evening of the year must be December 21st, just a few days before Christmas - the shortest day of the year. When better to appreciate the sound of crisp, pristine snow and the woodsy scent of pines?...
