A Touch of Frost

Hey,
When I woke up this morning I looked out the window. To my shock and amazement there was a layer of snow covering the world. I'm really not a big winter fan, I prefer the fall, but I really love fresh new fallen snow.

This all brought to mind a work that I haven't thought about in awhile Robert Frost's Stopping By a Woods on a Snowy Evening. For those who may have forgotten here it is, with my thoughts interspersed:

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.

So who is the "He"? It's not the narrator, although it seems like the narrator knows this "he" who owns the woods. I think it's going a bit far to say that it's the biblical "he"; that doesn't seem to be Frost's intention. At this point the narrator does not feel as if he owns the woods, just like often an individual may feel as if they have no control over their own life. So if the woods is the world, then our narrator is taking a moment to reflect on it.

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.

Is the horse perhaps a symbol for the rest of the world? The horse is urging the narrator towards action. The horse doesn't understand the need to stop. I often have trouble myself just taking a moment to stop and consider.

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.

Of course this communion requires silence.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,

One could easily be sucked in, but the world beckons. Even our narrator feels compelled to return to his duties.

And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

These last two lines just feels like an audible sigh. The repetition of the line completes the thought and gives us closure.

Now this could all be read as a analogy for death, mortality, and how we live our lives. Frost argues that a life of reflection is often wished for, but ultimately isn't possible. Whose to blame for this? Ourselves. We get in our own way.

Oh poetry is good. Have a great week! Book Slave.