Sometimes when you feel, you see the world with different eyes, from different perspectives, with different thoughts at the back of your mind. Suddenly you perceive new facets of the ordinary and unspectacular things of your routine life. Suddenly the snow turns out to be the source of creativity and the fount of wisdom. It doesn't take long until a powerful mountain range by a sunny day appears to become the object of curiosity and desire. You feel.
When you feel, you feel something, but your feelings can take different forms: the ones hurt or wound your compassion, the other ones let you sink in thoughts about your pastimes, while the third ones gives a good reason for cheering. I would rather feel too much, than ponder on the feelings of a person who experiences the ecstasy of love.
I will never - never - again miss the chance to get to know you. And love you.
«Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, 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 feet had trodden black.
Oh, I kept 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 travelled by,
and that has made all the difference.»
Robert Frost, "The Road Not Taken" (1920)
Robert Frost was born in San Francisco in 1874. He moved to New England at the age of eleven and became interested in reading and writing poetry during his high school years in Lawrence, Massachusetts. He was enrolled at Dartmouth College in 1892, and later at Harvard, but never earned a formal degree. Frost drifted through a string of occupations after leaving school, working as a teacher, cobbler, and editor of the Lawrence Sentinel.
Though his work is principally associated with the life and landscape of New England, and though he was a poet of traditional verse forms and metrics who remained steadfastly aloof from the poetic movements and fashions of his time, Frost is anything but a merely regional or minor poet. The author of searching and often dark meditations on universal themes, he is a quintessentially modern poet in his adherence to language as it is actually spoken, in the psychological complexity of his portraits, and in the degree to which his work is infused with layers of ambiguity and irony. Robert Frost lived and taught for many years in Massachusetts and Vermont, and died on January 29, 1963, in Boston.