And miles to go before I sleep...

When times are hard, when you're overwhelmed with work, and despair takes over you...one just feels that maybe "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, / I took the one less traveled by, /..." (http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-road-not-taken/)
I hope better times will come but, the truth is that right now, I see everything pretty bleak (is it also a reflection of the weather???). For this week, let me just leave you a poem...
Also by Robert Frost, here is another text I love and whose last lines make so much sense for me at the moment:

Credit: www.biography.com

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

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 may 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.

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stopping-by-woods-on-a-snowy-evening-2/

Happy Thanksgiving :)

Image Credit: wikipedia

The Gift Outright

by Robert Frost

The land was ours before we were the land’s.

She was our land more than a hundred years

Before we were her people. She was ours

In Massachusetts, in Virginia,

But we were England’s, still colonials,

Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,

Possessed by what we now no more possessed.

Something we were withholding made us weak

Until we found out that it was ourselves

We were withholding from our land of living,

And forthwith found salvation in surrender.

Such as we were we gave ourselves outright

(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)

To the land vaguely realizing westward,

But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,

Such as she was, such as she would become.

Source: The Poetry of Robert Frost (Henry Holt & Co., 1969)