Robert Frost is the bombdizzle.

Seriously though, Robert Frost is pretty amazing. Lucky me, I’m taking a Robert Frost class this term! What?! I’m posting up one of the most famous poems he has written because this is one of the few poems that I actually remember reading from back in the high school days, and even though I totally didn’t get it at the time, it stuck with me. Frost is actually one of the reasons I knew being an English major is what I wanted. It’s hard to explain.

Anyways…… I know a common interpretation of this poem involves suicide and death, but I want you to try think of it as a metaphor for the creative process too – a process that is not necessarily a pleasant walk in the park. (See Ode on Melancholy by Keats for more of that necessary pain to reach that place where creative people go that we normals don’t understand.) There’s a zillion ways to look at it. If you’re really cool, post your thoughts in the comments! Enjoy!

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.


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