Monday, November 30, 2009

Ma's Photos , Frost's Poetry








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.

2 comments:

Bob said...

B-U-T-FULL.
I love that Robert Frost poem, as well as The Road Not Taken.

Sean Newbury said...

What's the blue thing?