Robert Frost

My mother made me memorize Robert Frost. The two poems I remember are The Road Not Taken and Stopping by Woods.

I didn't get it. A horse thinking it queer that a writer stops in the woods to watch them fill with snow? At the age of twelve, I thought that was kind of queer. The poems were just simple stories, and while I understood some of the allegorical content, I couldn't grasp the beauty of the language. It was just words.

I'm not sure why, but Robert Frost has been in my head for the last few days. Between the woods and frozen lake, the darkest evening of the year. It could have something to do with the blizzards that have recently brushed through my locale; Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. Or maybe it's just idle thoughts of a 9-5 laborer, pondering his situation, wondering what might come next.

Either way, words fell me. No matter how much I quote Monty Python, it's still funny. Now matter how many times I stumble over Shakespeare, it's still stunning. And no matter how little I understand of Robert Frost, it's still beautiful. Beautiful like I could never imagine before I tried to write it myself.