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.

After all these years, this poem came to mind very strongly tonight. Whether it is Frost's intended meaning or not, suddenly the words are an articulation of a faced reality. And I guess this is a good thing--the articulation of reality (or perceived reality...I am wise enough to know there is a difference.) My prayer? May my Lord be Lord of all. Especially as these woods are lovely, dark and deep.