It seemed only fair that since I said that "Travel" by Robert Louis Stevenson was my second favorite poem, I should post my favorite. While this one might seem trite and overused, I think there is a lot more meaning here than most people grasp. I think part of my attraction to this one is the intense sense of lonliness which he manages to capture. And there is as much meaning in what is not said in this piece as what is said: what is this journey about; where am I going and where have I come from? Why stop here? What attracts me to rest in this place?
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment