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.
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's 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
I'm not a fan of Robert Frost. I've always thought that his poetry was simple and a little boring. Maybe it's me, but I can't really derive any kind of profound deeper meaning from most of his writing...most of his writing.But this poem's last stanza has been echoing in my head a lot lately. I have to admit, I like it. I can relate to it:
The woods are lovely and perplexing. I'd like to stop and contemplate them; figure it all out. But I've got miles to go and obligations to fulfill. There is simply no time: No time to contemplate. No time to sleep.
Man, I'm such a freaking English major...
