Poetry Sunday

Yes, I'm officially tired of winter.

I left Pittsburgh yesterday ahead of an expected four-to-eight inches of snow and two-tenths of an inch of ice. Ugh. One of the things about living in NoVa is that we don't get all that much snow. When we get it, we really get it, but on the whole, we don't see that much white stuff in most years. Since I grew up in Western Pennsylvania, I got used to snow and White Christmases at an early age, and I have to say that I sometimes miss it (except the driving part, of course). Here's a classic poem about the beauty and mystery of a snow-covered landscape ...


Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
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.


I came back from Pittsburgh yesterday afternoon, and will be flying to Germany on Wednesday to attend the funeral of Agnes's father, who died on Friday night. I actually do have miles to go before I sleep.

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo