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