Some may wonder from whence the title of this blog is derived.  Growing up in New England, in the woods on a lake, one of my favorite poems was this.  I imagined the horse was my dog…

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
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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.

– Robert Frost

[Photo by James Denham, via Wikimedia Commons]