I have been sort of suffering from writers' block recently. Ever time I go to post something, I get stuck, then distracted and never finish. I currently have a whole post about chasing Ivory Gulls that is still in the works, as well as one about the Port Washington Kittiwake that I have yet to start. Not to mention at least two posts in progress for the ABA's Young Birder's blog "
The Eyrie."
Since I have little to say myself, I thought I'd let someone say it for me. The following is one of my favorite poems, by my favorite poet: Robert Frost.
Frost was born in 1874 in San Fransisco, CA and was named after confederate general Robert E Lee. In 1886, he moved to New Hampshire where he finished school and then attended college at Dartmouth. He doesn't even finish the first year of school and leaves, bored with the whole thing. During the same year, he also becomes engaged to his girlfriend and fellow student Elinor White. in 1897, he entered Harvard as a freshman but drops out at the end of the school year. It will be his last attempt at college. Over the following years, his family is ravaged by disease and death, but despite this, he takes, and subsequently drops, several teaching positions and still manages to write several pulitzer prize winning poems. He also moves several times during this period. After several years of ongoing medical problems himself, in 1941, he moved to Cambridge, MA where he would remain the rest of his life. In 1959, he predicts the election of John F Kennedy and is appointed to three-year term as Honorary Consultant in the Humanities at the Library of Congress.
In 1962, he falls seriously ill with pneumonia and is hospitalized. In 1963, he is awarded the Bollingen prize for Poetry. Not long after, he suffers a pulmonary embolism and dies Jan 29th, 1963.
A more complete biography of Frost's life can be found here.
So, without further ado, here is one of my favorite poems ever.
It is entitled "Stopping by woods on a snowy evening." Enjoy.
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.
