The time has come for the daily post and I cannot, for the life of me, think of something to write. Shocking, I know. There’s so much I could write about but it somehow doesn’t seem all that important. I could tell you about my day, and about the GRE I took or how I drove to Springfield to clean our church building and serve at liturgy, but I’ve been doing that a lot and I think you might be tired of it. I could pontificate on some topic either sacred or profane, but I’ve been doing a lot of that lately, too. What does a blogger do in such a situation? I really don’t know.
Ah, perhaps I have it.
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.
I first discovered this poem in a class I was taking a few years ago and it has always remained one of my favorites by Frost, indeed, by any poet. Those of you who have taken the standard undergraduate English Lit course have probably come across this one as well, and have heard the many interpretations. The most usual interpretation is that the man is contemplating his own death, the woods being a metaphor for the afterlife. If this was what Frost had in mind that’s all right by me, but personally it has a different meaning for me. This is the wonderful thing about poetry, it means different things to different people.
I cannot tell you how much I love the woods in winter. It’s one of the things I miss most about our old house, the woods behind in winter were spectacular. Just to walk in, to think, to feel the sting of the cold night air, hear the crunch of the snow, everything glowing with moonlight. This is what Frost’s poem is for me. The lovely dark woods, snow swirly gently, a recognition that the night will end and I must go home, even though I’d like nothing better than to stay and walk on.
Hm, all of this talk has gotten me writing on a pad of paper next to the computer, always a dangerous thing. So now I’ll close with a little self-promotion, two short poems newly composed and equally bad.
Pine forests, river waters, mountains, and secluded valleys. The ocean calls to me, the plains swallow me up. The glades in winter, the glades in fall. All of nature speaks peace.