Whose Woods These Are

Oh hi. I'm here in Colorado. No time to elaborate. But I re-read the below poem after stopping by this quiet aspen grove yesterday. It's nice, the poem. Peaceful, you know? A little sad.

Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

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.