by: Robert Frost
When the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts with snow
The lowest chamber window on the east,
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,
‘Come out! Come out!’–
It costs no inward struggle not to go,
Ah, no!
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,–
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away
And my heart owns a doubt
Whether ’tis in us to arise with day
And save ourselves unaided.
I have posted this because I have been reading Robert Frost this evening. I am working on several new webpages at a time ( as is my habit when I finally do work on them at all), and in looking over material for pages on the winter season, this poem caught my fancy.
I like Robert Frost very much anyway, and this one fits my mood. Yes, not only still morose, but worsely so! But it is not the fault of the season, only my own.
I still have one lone bush to plant, which I will lose if I don’t make myself do it tomorrow. There are five lone hyacinth bulbs. I didn’t plan on them, but wanted them. Will stick them in somewhere with a dash or two of bonemeal. But I have to make myself work. Trouble is, there is much, much, yet to do in straightening up the yard and clipping some vines out of the way, in getting some weeds out and tilling the vegetable garden. Stuff like that.
I announced to my husband, announced, that this year we HAVE to get that leaf vacuum. We can’t afford it, but we need it. I did offer the alternative that he could be in charge of the leaf raking this year. But he doesn’t go for that idea.
