Frost: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Another poem by Frost.  More widely known but suggested by a reader.  Anything that can quell the fire of world violence on a Sunday evening is a welcome respite. – Carlos

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening


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.

About carlos

I'm a curious person, of reasonable intellect, "on the beach" (retired) and enjoying my interest in anthropology, language, civil rights, and a few other areas. I've been a hippie/student/aerospace tech writer in the '60s, a witness to the Portuguese revolution in the ‘70s, a defense test engineer and witness to the Guatemalan genocide in the '80s, and a network engineer for an ISP in the '90s. Now I’m a student and commentator until my time is up. I've spent time under the spell of the Mesoamerican pyramids and the sweet sound of the Portuguese language. I've lived in Europe, traveled in Brazil, Central America, Iceland, New Zealand, and other places. My preferred mode of travel is with a backpack and I eat (almost) anything local. Somehow, many of the countries I have been to have had civil unrest (for which I was not responsible). I'm open to correspond with anyone who might share my liberal, humanist interests. I live in San Buenaventura, California.
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5 Responses to Frost: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

  1. ritaroberts says:

    Like the poem Carlos.

  2. tiare75 says:

    This has always been one of my favorite poems…not only for the beauty on the surface, but also the deeper theme of contemplating suicide.

    • carlos says:

      I grew up in New York. Lots of snow and the smell of winter as in an Ohio summer there is the smell of cut hay.
      I recall an English teacher saying that there was no particular meaning to the poem. I found a similar meaning while hitchhiking at 2 am on a lonely country road and in the morning being licked awake by a cow. Sometimes more meaning can be found in a haiku than an epic.

  3. deanjbaker says:

    always enjoyed this

  4. Thank you very much, Carlos

    Como você vê, minha memória me traiu. Eu lembrava o começo, nada do meio e um pouquinho do final.

    Foi muito bom recordar. E tinha bastante razão para não esquecê-lo de todo. É muito bonito, na sua singeleza.



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