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May 13, 2011 · Robert Frost 1874 (San Francisco) – 1963 (Boston) Nature. 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.
This deceptively simple poem is by Robert Frost (1874 – 1963). He wrote it in 1922 in a few moments after being up the entire night writing a long and complicated poem. The poem uses an AABA rhyme scheme. The repetition of the last line emphasizes the profundity contained in the last stanza, a popular reading for funerals.
Dec 5, 2019 · ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ is, after ‘The Road Not Taken’, Robert Frost’s best-known and best-loved poem. (Frost himself called it ‘my best bid for remembrance’.) It seems a rather straightforward poem, but, as with that other Frost poem, its simplicity is only on the surface, and is belied here by several things ...
The serene, quiet tone that builds through the poem is disrupted by the return of focus to the speaker himself the final stanza. Frost’s description of the woods as “lovely, dark and deep,” as well as the many miles left to travel, suggests that the speaker’s journey may represent life itself—while the woods, in their darkness and silence, represent death.
By Robert Frost. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both. And be one traveler, long I stood. And looked down one as far as I could. To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
1963. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both. And be one traveler, long I stood. And looked down one as far as I could. To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
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,
