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.
Yesterday and today will likely be the coldest days of our entire year. So, I am reminded of this poem of one the coldest days of Frost's experience in New Hampshire many years ago. And even though it is cold, my mind has made a great number of stops today in its open field of thoughts. The horse-drawn carriage stopped at thoughts of cold, bleak territory in my mind. I didn't linger there, though. I next stopped at a few places that brought to mind good memories of places and people far away and long ago. And then it traveled on to to pause at that one great spot as inviting and beautiful as the snowy woods in the poem. The horse must have thought I made a mistake because I lingered there many, many times longer than any other spot on the road.
But there was no mistake in stopping at the most lovely place in my entire mind. I let the woods of my mind fill up with the snows of the warm, pleasing scenes crossing it. It was a quiet, sacred place, full of cheerful and enjoyable snowflakes stacking one on top of another. This particular place of inner sanctum is sacred because it contains the desire of my heart, the source of warmth in the coldest of times, the spark of flame for every joy, and the need to linger in its presence when triggered by scenes of soft, white, glistening beauty.
But I have promises to keep, so I have roused my horse to continue my journey. I have miles to go before I sleep.
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