Many of us shall awaken to the aftermath of what’s being called “The Beast from the East” or to those of us in the North, Snow. I predict, trains shall stop at the very least, the Country shall stop at the very most, but it shall be reported on, so I thought I’d start the rollercoaster of snow events with a poem from Robert Frost.
By Helen Armet
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.
By Robert Frost