It's time for a break from art for today and a visit to the poetry corner. Another poem by Robert Frost, not that I particularly like his poetry but it's in the public domain. I just like poems on a case by case basis, and I like this poem. Photo courtesy of http://www.wetcanvas.com/Stopping by woods on a snowy evening.
Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house lies 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,
To ask if there is some mistake,
The only other sounds 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
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If you've been following the last few days landscape painting demonstration, check back over the next week where I should be able to upload the completion of this painting. It's dry now and ready for to continue on to the next stages. I just need to find the time!! Over the next while I shall be showing further demonstrations, similar to this one. For me, these type of posts are interesting, as they serve as a visual diary of my work in progress. So where possible I shall continue them.
That poem was very nearly crap imho. Frost's got nothing going on until the last line. That's turns the whole thing on end. You hear that line and think "Hmm, where's he going? What's the premise? Is he escaping from somewhere? Is something after him? Why's he going so far in winter? Why can't he just lay down and have a kip under a tree? What's in the woods? Is someone there? Lookout Frost!"
ReplyDeleteIt's a genius line but my guess is it was an accident.
Frost wrote this poem in the summer sitting at his desk looking out at the summer sun. He had taken this journey the previous winter on the 21st December the "darkest day of the year". He lived in Vermont at that time and went to Derry in New Hampshire to sell some livestock or something in order to buy Christmas presents for his wife and children, but he had failed to sell anything. I don't know if the poem is him going or coming back having failed to sell...Jim
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