Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost
One of the best-loved of Frost's poems, and with good reason, is "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening". It's been widely anthologized in collections for adults as well as children, and it has been set to music and as the text of a picture book on at least one occasion. I feel I should tell you that much as I love this poem, I've been thinking about it quite often recently because of a poem entitled "First Lines, Bastardized" written by the lovely and talented J. Patrick Lewis, which consists of parodies of first lines/stanzas in other poems. The first four lines keep coming to my mind this month (what with it being Poe's birthday and all):
from "First Lines, Bastardized"
by J. Patrick Lewis
Whose woods these are I think I know.
They're owned by Edgar Allan Poe;
His shadow’s standing in the gloom
To watch his woods fill up with woe.
Many thanks to Pat for his permission to post this here, and many more thanks to him for writing them in the first place - they have brought me, quite literally, hours of enjoyment. But I digress.
Before I get to the poem itself, I want to talk a little bit about poetry readers, who bring so much of their own life and experience and expectation to a poem. I've seen this with my own work, so I know a little something about it. Sometimes, I write a poem that appears to be about, say, nature, or a particular event, and I have deliberately set out to use it as a metaphor for something else or at least to incorporate metaphor into it, so that the poem speaks on two levels. And sometimes, I write about something very straightforwardly, to try to establish that psychic connection that Stephen King writes about in On Writing, where he tells us what writing is: Telepathy, of course. I highly commend you to read the entire book, which is excellent both in its instruction and its example. At the very least, you can read the context of this quote.
So let's assume that you're in your favorite receiving place just as I am in the place where I do my best transmitting. We'll have to perform our mentalist routine not just over distance but over time as well, yet that presents no real problem; if we can still read Dickens, Shakespeare, and (with the help of a footnote or two) Herodotus, I think we can manage the gap between 1997 and 2000. And here we go-actual telepathy in action. You'll notice I have nothing up my sleeves and that my lips never move. Neither, most likely, do yours.
Look-here's a table covered with a red cloth. On it is a cage the size of a small fish aquarium. In the cage is a white rabbit with a pink nose and pink-rimmed eyes. In its front paws is a carrot-stub upon which it is contentedly munching. On its back, clearly marked in blue ink, is the numeral 8.
Do we see the same thing? We'd have to get together and compare notes to make absolutely sure, but I think we do. There will be necessary variations, of course: some receivers will see a cloth that is turkey red, some will see one that's scarlet, while others may see still other shades. (To colorblind receivers, the red tablecloth is the dark gray of cigar ashes.) Some may see scalloped edges, some may see straight ones. Decorative souls may add a little lace, and welcome- my tablecloth is your tablecloth, knock yourself out.
Likewise, the matter of the cage leaves quite a lot of room for individual interpreation. For one thing, it is described in terms of rough comparison, which is useful only if you and I see the world and measure things in it with similar eyes. It's easy to become careless when making rough comparisons, but the alternative is a prissy attention to detail that takes all the fun out of writing. What am I going to say, "on the table is a cage three feet, six inches in length, two feet in width, and fourteen inches high"? That's not prose, that's an instruction manual. The paragraph also doesn't tell us what sort of material the cage is made of-wire mesh? steel rods? glass?-but does it really matter? We all understand the cage is a see-through medium; beyond that, we don't care. The most interesting thing here isn't even the carrot-munching rabbit in the cage, but the number on its back. Not a six, not a four, not nineteen-point-five. It's an eight. This is what we're looking at, and we all see it. I didn't tell you. You didn't ask me. I never opened my mouth and you never opened yours. We're not even in the same year together, let alone the same room...except we are together. We're close.
We're having a meeting of the minds.
I sent you a table with a red cloth on it, a cage, a rabbit, and the number eight in blue ink. You got them all, especially that blue eight. We've engaged in an act of telepathy. Not mythy-mountain shit; real telepathy. I'm not going to belabor the point, but before we go any further you have to understand that I'm not trying to be cute; there is a point to be made.
In some cases, you see, the poet is merely trying to get you to share the experience they had on one occasion - maybe they are trying to convey how they felt, or maybe they are trying to convey what they saw or heard. In other words, to quote John Belushi (as Sigmund Freud), "Sometimes a banana is just a banana." I would argue that this particular poem was probably, for Frost, "just a banana" - a snapshot of what he did and saw one evening. That is bolstered by stories of Frost speaking to students, and saying that he was inspired to write the poem as he made his way home from getting groceries one dark evening in New Hampshire, and he stopped, and looked at the beauty of the snow falling in the woods owned by a man in Franconia, and then, realizing his wife was waiting for those groceries at home, he set off again. Frost also said on more than one occasion that this poem came to him quickly, and almost of a piece, during one evening's writing session. In fact, it would seem that he really made only one minor adjustment to the poem. It is that adjustment that has set people onto a hundred different paths of interpretation for something that I have to say I think was meant to be "just a banana", or perhaps a table with a red cloth, a cage, a rabbit, and the number eight in blue ink.
Now, Frost wrote this poem when he was living in Franconia, New Hampshire (pay no attention to what Wikipedia tells you, which is based on when the poem was published, not when it was written). In the house museum at Franconia is a hand-written version of this poem. Interestingly, Frost initially ended it with a three-line stanza (dropping the third line, essentially). But then he went back and added a fourth line, which is nothing more than a simple repetition of the third. He did it, he claimed, because he liked the sound of it. I would add that it causes that last line to weigh more (on the ear and in meaning), and it sounds almost like a benediction when one reaches the end of the poem. Without further ado (but with more to follow), the poem:
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
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.
The poem utilizes stanzas written in ruba'i, which are linked with their rhyme: AABA BBCB CCDC DDDD. The lines are all written in iambic tetrameter (four iambic feet per line: ta-DUM ta-DUM ta-DUM ta-DUM). There are many folks who, based on the strength of the rhyme and the lines, can recite portions of this poem from memory after a single hearing. I think it's more than the rhythm, rhyme, and repetition that helps that, though: I think there's something about this poem that resonates with most hearers, no matter their age, which is why the poem is so widely anthologized for children as well as adults.
I believe that Frost added the repetition to the final stanza "And miles to go before I sleep" because he wanted a fourth line. But he was a talented poet, and could have added something else there, rather than just repeating it, had he wanted to. So the choice to repeat the line is deliberate, and is the thing that has opened this poem up to so much interpretation. When I recite this poem (for I have it committed to memory), I find that I say that last line like an absent after-thought, confirming to myself that I have to turn my attention back to task and get moving, and I rather suspect that's what Frost intended.
There are, however, a number of people who say that with the extra weight on the notion of "miles to go before I sleep", that Frost intended a metaphor: a lot more to do before I can rest, or even a lot more years to live before I die. And certainly, those interpretations work for me as well. Frost pauses from his mundane tasks in this poem, taking a moment to observe nature around him. He thinks about pausing longer, but realizes he must move onward.
Because of this, there are those who go still further and say that the entire poem is a contemplation of suicide - and I think they are stretching too far. But certainly they can support that theory, bringing with them all their experience and expectation. And who am I to argue? But I say to you again, "sometimes a banana is just a banana."
from "First Lines, Bastardized"
by J. Patrick Lewis
Whose woods these are I think I know.
They're owned by Edgar Allan Poe;
His shadow’s standing in the gloom
To watch his woods fill up with woe.
Many thanks to Pat for his permission to post this here, and many more thanks to him for writing them in the first place - they have brought me, quite literally, hours of enjoyment. But I digress.
Before I get to the poem itself, I want to talk a little bit about poetry readers, who bring so much of their own life and experience and expectation to a poem. I've seen this with my own work, so I know a little something about it. Sometimes, I write a poem that appears to be about, say, nature, or a particular event, and I have deliberately set out to use it as a metaphor for something else or at least to incorporate metaphor into it, so that the poem speaks on two levels. And sometimes, I write about something very straightforwardly, to try to establish that psychic connection that Stephen King writes about in On Writing, where he tells us what writing is: Telepathy, of course. I highly commend you to read the entire book, which is excellent both in its instruction and its example. At the very least, you can read the context of this quote.
So let's assume that you're in your favorite receiving place just as I am in the place where I do my best transmitting. We'll have to perform our mentalist routine not just over distance but over time as well, yet that presents no real problem; if we can still read Dickens, Shakespeare, and (with the help of a footnote or two) Herodotus, I think we can manage the gap between 1997 and 2000. And here we go-actual telepathy in action. You'll notice I have nothing up my sleeves and that my lips never move. Neither, most likely, do yours.
Look-here's a table covered with a red cloth. On it is a cage the size of a small fish aquarium. In the cage is a white rabbit with a pink nose and pink-rimmed eyes. In its front paws is a carrot-stub upon which it is contentedly munching. On its back, clearly marked in blue ink, is the numeral 8.
Do we see the same thing? We'd have to get together and compare notes to make absolutely sure, but I think we do. There will be necessary variations, of course: some receivers will see a cloth that is turkey red, some will see one that's scarlet, while others may see still other shades. (To colorblind receivers, the red tablecloth is the dark gray of cigar ashes.) Some may see scalloped edges, some may see straight ones. Decorative souls may add a little lace, and welcome- my tablecloth is your tablecloth, knock yourself out.
Likewise, the matter of the cage leaves quite a lot of room for individual interpreation. For one thing, it is described in terms of rough comparison, which is useful only if you and I see the world and measure things in it with similar eyes. It's easy to become careless when making rough comparisons, but the alternative is a prissy attention to detail that takes all the fun out of writing. What am I going to say, "on the table is a cage three feet, six inches in length, two feet in width, and fourteen inches high"? That's not prose, that's an instruction manual. The paragraph also doesn't tell us what sort of material the cage is made of-wire mesh? steel rods? glass?-but does it really matter? We all understand the cage is a see-through medium; beyond that, we don't care. The most interesting thing here isn't even the carrot-munching rabbit in the cage, but the number on its back. Not a six, not a four, not nineteen-point-five. It's an eight. This is what we're looking at, and we all see it. I didn't tell you. You didn't ask me. I never opened my mouth and you never opened yours. We're not even in the same year together, let alone the same room...except we are together. We're close.
We're having a meeting of the minds.
I sent you a table with a red cloth on it, a cage, a rabbit, and the number eight in blue ink. You got them all, especially that blue eight. We've engaged in an act of telepathy. Not mythy-mountain shit; real telepathy. I'm not going to belabor the point, but before we go any further you have to understand that I'm not trying to be cute; there is a point to be made.
In some cases, you see, the poet is merely trying to get you to share the experience they had on one occasion - maybe they are trying to convey how they felt, or maybe they are trying to convey what they saw or heard. In other words, to quote John Belushi (as Sigmund Freud), "Sometimes a banana is just a banana." I would argue that this particular poem was probably, for Frost, "just a banana" - a snapshot of what he did and saw one evening. That is bolstered by stories of Frost speaking to students, and saying that he was inspired to write the poem as he made his way home from getting groceries one dark evening in New Hampshire, and he stopped, and looked at the beauty of the snow falling in the woods owned by a man in Franconia, and then, realizing his wife was waiting for those groceries at home, he set off again. Frost also said on more than one occasion that this poem came to him quickly, and almost of a piece, during one evening's writing session. In fact, it would seem that he really made only one minor adjustment to the poem. It is that adjustment that has set people onto a hundred different paths of interpretation for something that I have to say I think was meant to be "just a banana", or perhaps a table with a red cloth, a cage, a rabbit, and the number eight in blue ink.
Now, Frost wrote this poem when he was living in Franconia, New Hampshire (pay no attention to what Wikipedia tells you, which is based on when the poem was published, not when it was written). In the house museum at Franconia is a hand-written version of this poem. Interestingly, Frost initially ended it with a three-line stanza (dropping the third line, essentially). But then he went back and added a fourth line, which is nothing more than a simple repetition of the third. He did it, he claimed, because he liked the sound of it. I would add that it causes that last line to weigh more (on the ear and in meaning), and it sounds almost like a benediction when one reaches the end of the poem. Without further ado (but with more to follow), the poem:
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
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.
The poem utilizes stanzas written in ruba'i, which are linked with their rhyme: AABA BBCB CCDC DDDD. The lines are all written in iambic tetrameter (four iambic feet per line: ta-DUM ta-DUM ta-DUM ta-DUM). There are many folks who, based on the strength of the rhyme and the lines, can recite portions of this poem from memory after a single hearing. I think it's more than the rhythm, rhyme, and repetition that helps that, though: I think there's something about this poem that resonates with most hearers, no matter their age, which is why the poem is so widely anthologized for children as well as adults.
I believe that Frost added the repetition to the final stanza "And miles to go before I sleep" because he wanted a fourth line. But he was a talented poet, and could have added something else there, rather than just repeating it, had he wanted to. So the choice to repeat the line is deliberate, and is the thing that has opened this poem up to so much interpretation. When I recite this poem (for I have it committed to memory), I find that I say that last line like an absent after-thought, confirming to myself that I have to turn my attention back to task and get moving, and I rather suspect that's what Frost intended.
There are, however, a number of people who say that with the extra weight on the notion of "miles to go before I sleep", that Frost intended a metaphor: a lot more to do before I can rest, or even a lot more years to live before I die. And certainly, those interpretations work for me as well. Frost pauses from his mundane tasks in this poem, taking a moment to observe nature around him. He thinks about pausing longer, but realizes he must move onward.
Because of this, there are those who go still further and say that the entire poem is a contemplation of suicide - and I think they are stretching too far. But certainly they can support that theory, bringing with them all their experience and expectation. And who am I to argue? But I say to you again, "sometimes a banana is just a banana."