by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village, though
He will not mind my 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.
Not sure why this came to mind tonight. Maybe wishful thinking. But one thing that's always true is the promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. Sometimes, though, like tonight, I think I will pass on the miles to go and just move straight to the sleep.
Call it camping out, if you will.
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1 comment:
My mind seems to welcome visits from Frost, though like you said, the reason for his visits aren't always clear.
Recently I changed jobs, and began my resignation letter with a quote from The Road Not Taken. Just seemed better to see the change as diverging paths rather than "I'm outta here."
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