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.

-- Robert Frost


Yeah, it's that time of year again, Happy Death-Day to me!

Just two short years ago I didn't so much shuffle this mortal coil as I sort of shrugged it a little. Anyways, it always makes me wax philisophical-like.

You know, I must have read this poem a hundred times over my seven year college career, most often in my second Sophmore year when I had to take a poetry class, and it never really struck a chord.

It does now.





Now I'm gonna go jerk off.