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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Quaint and quirky ode to country life at the turn of the previous centutry? Or metered metaphor of depression and mortal ideation? Read it again and decide for yourself...

by Robert Frost
published March 7, 1923
public domain, 2019

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.

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