Stopping by a bridge on a snowy morning

To paraphrase Robert Frost—‘Stopping by woods on a snowy evening’. Last week we had a snowfall that led to some accumulation of snow, and it was just exhilarating to be out in the early morning, taking pictures of the snowy trees and this bridge covered in snow, before too many other wanderers discovered the same places. It brought to mind my childhood days during wintertime, when I would find a secret place under one of the tall evergreen trees outside our house window; its many branches were often heavily weighed down with snow, almost touching the ground. The heavy branches created a little nest for me to crawl into and hide from the others, at least for a little while. I loved that feeling of aloneness, of having a secret hiding place. I would sit there and enjoy the silence and the whiteness of the snow and the sun glittering on the tree branches. Sometimes we would play hide-and-seek, and no one ever found me if I hid there.

It’s funny how poetry and photos can remind you of what once was. I think it’s incredible that the memories lie there, buried under years of living, and then a photo, a word, or even a smell, can take us back to earlier times in our lives. The memories don’t disappear; they just wait to be re-discovered. 

A winter poem by Robert Frost

I loved this poem immediately when we learned it as children in school. And my parents recited it to us when we were young. It's a beautiful poem with lovely images that captures a moment in the life of the observer, who knows he is too busy living his life to 'explore' the woods. He ends by saying he has 'miles to go before I sleep', which is a metaphor for his eventual death. So I interpret the poem to mean that he can stop and reflect on his life at different points in his life, and that perhaps nature serves as a means for him to do this, but that he wishes to keep going, to keep living, to honor his promises, before he rests forever.


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.