I am not a fan of Robert Frost.

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'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...