Dust of Snow
BY ROBERT FROST
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
~*~
I awoke to a dusting of snow, a rare event here in the deep South, especially so early in Winter, but magical just the same. I immediately thought of my favorite, old faithful Robert Frost poems.
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.
4 comments:
Perfect poetry to accompany your beautiful photos! I wasn't familiar with the first.
I hate snow while Peggy loves both walking in it and skiing in it, and maybe you would too. I don't know if you're aware that this Mississippi boy spent two winters in a hellhole called Minnesota, or that snow is almost as rare here in Oregon's Willamette Valley as it is in central Louisiana, although its scarcity doesn't make me any more tolerant of it when it does fall. The interesting thing about snow here in Eugene is that we're at the southern end of the Valley with a 2,200 foot mountain no more than a mile distant. This mountain often get snow, and to see it up there serves as a reminder of how close snow comes to me without actually falling upon me. I literally miss seeing the earth when it's covered with snow. I think of snow as perverse and unnatural, although I know it's very natural indeed. Anything that robs the landscape of greenery is anathema to me, and so I not only hate snow, I hate winter too.
I know the second Frost poem by heart. It's one of many poems that I've memorized, the most recent being "The Raven." Years ago, I came across a website that picked "The Raven" to pieces technically, and while I thought that the author's every point was valid, the thought occurred to me that "The Raven" will survive when he is dead, and it's probably the one poem that damn near everyone remembers something about. I therefore concluded that, for all his acuity, that critic missed the point.
Glad to read this, this evening. No snow, certainly a crow.
I am not sure what it is but every year when it gets quiet and the snow falls for the first timr and the airvhas a different scent it feels magical.
Poetry seems just as magical.
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