Snapshots of a Modest Life

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.

-Robert Frost

Some time last month, my voice teacher asked us to bring in our favorite poem to use as text. I have never had a favorite poem, so I began searching through poetry I'd read in high school to find a few lines of verse that tickled my fancy. I plowed through some Emily Dickinson, contemplated Alfred Noyes, cringed at Sylvia Plath, then came to Robert Frost. I paused. I remembered sitting in Mr. K's class reading assorted works of Robert Frost, only half paying attention, knowing that it was English class, and I could easily get away with making something up when it came time to produce some sort of work that indicated I'd been paying attention. I remembered that I liked it. Of all the poets we read, I liked him the most I think. I don't recall why exactly, just that I did. I read a few of the familiar titles, "Mending Wall," "The Tuft of Flowers," "Out, Out--," then "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening."

Having not seen it for several years, I read it again, seeing if it could pass as a 'favorite poem'. I found that not only did it pass, it became a favorite poem. When I got to class and recited it, I felt a little silly. Everyone else had chosen a poem that had some deep and profound meaning, something horribly valuable and grown up to say. Mine was just simple and calm. I liked that it made me feel peaceful inside. I liked how it was quiet and sad. On the walk home from class, I thought, why does this poem grab me? As I thought, a picture came to mind.

A little girl in her pajamas and slipper socks sits next to a window, knees pressed against the side of the radiator, elbows resting in the valleys on top. There is the soft glow of a night light shining near her, comforting her fear of the dark. But at that moment, her focus is not on the gloomy room behind her. Hands cupped under her little chin, she stares out into the dark night, watching the snow fall gently over her play land, tucking it in under a white blanket. The old gray maple tree outside her window doesn't look as sad now that he's covered in white. She knows she shouldn't be awake, her bedtime came and went hours ago, but she cannot pry herself from the transformation happening before her eyes. Tomorrow she will put on her coat and too big boots and play in it, make snow angels and snow forts, and maybe even a lopsided snow man with a crooked carrot for a nose. But tonight she'll just watch.