Robert Frost’s Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening is just one of those poems that does something special for me: It takes me there, where I need to go, where I want to go. It brings me back, takes me home. How else can I put it?
I could never quite get it, really, just why I have for so long loved revisiting this poem. I especially love hearing it read aloud. During one period of my life, I would often ask someone close to me to “please read it again, pretty please.” He always graciously acquiesced:
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.
Ahhh, like taking a deep, conscious breath to reconnect with your source. The magical thing about this type of experience, though, is that in the moment that we connect with the artist’s creation, we connect as well with the artist him or herself, who has gleaned something much deeper and shared it with us. Double magic.
Thanks, Robert Frost.