Tonight, while going through some of Phil’s fathers papers, I found a note that he wanted Phil to get his signed copy of a Robert Frost book. Since I am the poetry fan in our family, you would think this would please me. However, instead, it set off a panic. Last fall, I helped my mother in law clear the bookshelves, and while I took some of my favorite poetry books, I wasn’t sure I grabbed the right one. You can tell from the picture I did find it, and I am just so glad my love of Robert Frost saved this family treasure.
Turns out, it is a 1st edition of his 9th book. There is a card inside for “An evening with Robert Frost” at Fletcher Farm, where he must have done a reading in 1937. It is addressed to some long gone poetry lover from Vermont. And now, it rests on my bookshelf (as I have claimed this wondrous part of Phil’s future inheritance).
I have so many favorites, and even have a few taped recordings of Robert Frost reading some of his poetry. But I guess this is a favorite that is brief enough that you may actually read it. So here. Poetry of the day.
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
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.