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 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
Finals week, fall semester, senior year. I was studying for my organic chemistry final. I was pre-med at the time, so my grade on this mattered. I'd been to class and been diligent in studying all semester, but the final was going to be brutal and I needed to memorize. After 17 hours straight of flashcards and diagrams and 2-litre of Diet Mountain Dew, I needed a break, but I couldn't sleep. I walked out in the snow to a field on the edge of town, and I traced out the last line of this poem in the new-fallen snow, in my boots, in letters eight feet high.
I got an A- on the final.
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