Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Some more images from our impromptu Saturday afternoon idyll:

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.

-Robert Frost


Though the Solstice is still another month an a half off, a combination of factors (Olmsted's design, a fog rolling in off Boston Harbor and the early sunset - 4:30 pm) created such an atmosphere that only Frost's poem could have provided the rhythm for my footsteps.


Meade said...

Gorgeous, Be! Well done!

Be said...

Gee whiz, thanks. (red face)

There's always a song or a poem in the head. That one materialized when we first got walking and just wouldn't leave until I could exorcize it.