The woods are lovely

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.

---

Robert Frost (1874 - 1963)
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

After the first snow of the season I thought this was an appropriate post. I always like that first snow, before the traffic gets to it and makes it grey or, as now, when the weather warms and turns it to slush. I was up at 3:00 a.m., wandering the house, and when I looked out the streetlights were hazy and glowing, their glare softened by the falling snow. The road was deserted and the only evidence of life I saw were some tracks leading up the front walk, possibly a rabbit or perhaps a cat. My woods are my neighbours' houses, my trees are interspersed with telephone poles, but I felt the same sense of tranquility that briefly took hold of Frost before the world called him away.