As snow falls between the trees, deepening the silence, chilling the sense of depth in woodland, the sense that we do not quite belong any more in this ecosphere is enhanced. Frost's poem, ninety odd years old now, reminds us that the human world of affairs and business is out of kilter with the rhythm of nature, even though sleep, that essential cyclical mystery of our being, is part of it all: our superiority means that we can order our sleep to fit the plans we strive to follow.
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.