Remember those years when you jumped with joy seeing snow?

          ... sledding, building snowmen, jumping into drifts, skiing; you even loved the beauty of snow.

Then reality set in. 

For me, this occurred in my high school English class when Mike Krumenacker told us that Robert Frost's “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” was not a poem about the beauty of the snow and the woods of New England. Instead, the themes included the "darkness" of the woods (death, evil) and that was somewhat ominous.

Somehow, that day in high school removed the majesty of snow from my psyche. By that time, I did not care for shoveling it, but you could still love cavorting in it.

After Frost we read “The Wasteland” by T.S. Eliot. At that point, I realized that there was no hope for the universe -- or for the world of poetry. Rhyme was dead, and poetry had taken a devastating turn.

Then came adulthood, like the summer of '14. Nothing majestic about the snow and temps the last few months.

Nevertheless, with three to six more inches on the way, I can still say that I love Robert Frost and can recite these lines from heart:

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.

Such a beautiful poem. 

Bring it on, nature. We are ready for you.