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, Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
This poem has always resonated with me, especially in my more contemplative moods. Whenever I'm about to succumb to the distractive curiosities in life, this poem seems to emerge from the recesses of my mind. Lately there have been many distractions and curiosities. It sure would be nice to stop and gawk for a while, but there is family to be with, a job to go to, and preps yet to be put away. And miles to go before I sleep.
Silver Takes the Elevator Down, Report 30 April, 2017
37 minutes ago