Monday's Poetry: "Good Hours"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator

I heard that snow is falling in the "upper Midwest" today, and while it is uncomfortably cool in central Arizona, it never snows in the Valley of Hell - and I am feeling both melancholy and a bit envious of my friends back in the real world, the one with big trees and seasons.    Snow on the moonscape of Arizona would be a profanation, totally unappreciated and scorned by the rattlesnakes, scorpions, chupacabras, and old farts who terrorize all of the aforementioned as they zip back and forth to the liquor stores in their golf carts and recreational vehicles.

If America has an official winter poet, that person would be the late Robert Frost, a person whose very name evokes the season.  Frost's wonderful "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," which has been featured in this space previously, shows us a quiet snowfall deep within the New England woods, an image as beautiful and peaceful as any ever crafted in the English language.  Today's selection, "Good Hours," also by Robert Frost, offers another glimpse of winter and solitude in the poet's beloved New England.

Our planet is warming.  Soon our best views of winter may be in pages of books or the lines of poets.  Enjoy "Good Hours"  and let it snow!


Good Hours
by Robert Frost

I had for my winter evening walk—

No one at all with whom to talk,

But I had the cottages in a row

Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And I thought I had the folk within:

I had the sound of a violin;

I had a glimpse through curtain laces

Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.

I went till there were no cottages found.

I turned and repented, but coming back

I saw no window but that was black.

Over the snow my creaking feet

Disturbed the slumbering village street

Like profanation, by your leave,

At ten o'clock of a winter eve.