Two Roads Diverged In A Yellow Wood. . .

 

 

 

 

 

We visited the home of Robert Frost today, and listened quietly for the sound of the muses in the room where he wrote Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening. It was awesome. No surprise that Vermont should provide the inspiration for such poetry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The stone house.

 

 

 

 

The dutch door. 

 

 

 

 

A window in the room where Robert Frost sat on a June morning recalling a snowy Vermont winter.

 

 

 

 

 

The grounds.

 

 

 

 

Frost is buried in this churchyard on the road to a two-hundred foot high Revolutionary War monument. Twenty-two stories tall.

 

 

 

 

A view of the same church from the top of the monument.

 

 

 

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 

Robert Frost

 By contrast, we've been taking some rather well traveled roads, and loving every minute!

So nice that you came along too!

 

Jacqueline

 

 

2805~Potpourri Party