National Poetry Month: Robert Frost

Hello, hello! How’s everyone doing this wonderful Wednesday? It’s National Poetry Month, so I’m going to take April easy and just post a poem that I enjoy each week (except, of course, on review day). Mostly because I’m lazy and have nothing good to ramble about. Anyway, first up is Robert Frost.

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 thoughts on “National Poetry Month: Robert Frost

  1. My Father loved that Robert Frost poem.
    Rest in Peace, my Lord.

    Now let’s play hide and seek,
    in the synagogue of an ear of corn.
    and never mourn,
    as we dance around the Zion of a water bead,
    to never forget,
    the death of a child from the London Blitz……………

    A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London
    Dylan Thomas – 1914-1953

    Never until the mankind making
    Bird beast and flower
    Fathering and all humbling darkness
    Tells with silence the last light breaking
    And the still hour
    Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

    And I must enter again the round
    Zion of the water bead
    And the synagogue of the ear of corn
    Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
    Or sow my salt seed
    In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

    The majesty and burning of the child’s death.
    I shall not murder
    The mankind of her going with a grave truth
    Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
    With any further
    Elegy of innocence and youth.

    Deep with the first dead lies London’s daughter,
    Robed in the long friends,
    The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
    Secret by the unmourning water
    Of the riding Thames.
    After the first death, there is no other.

    Liked by 1 person

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