Bill With Anastasia

Bill With Anastasia
Bill Eatmon - 1955 - 2006 Co-shepherd at Sheltering Pines from June, 1996 to August, 2006.


Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

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
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.


(My father was very good at drawing and painting. He took an art class when I was in junior high school and one of the first assignments to all the students in the class was to paint a picture that was conjured in their minds from reading the poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening". The picture at the top of this page is a photo of the picture my father painted. It was his interpretation of the poem. It was probably painted about 1969. It has always been one of my favorite pictures that my father painted).

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

~ Sir Edmund William Gosse

The soft wind blows
Across the snows,
And turns the palest face to rose;
The wind it goes
Where no one knows,
Like water round the world it flows;
The sunlit air is warm and light
Though all the earth be wrapped in white.

But owlets shrill
Shriek round the hill
When twilight fades, and all is still;
The keen gusts fill
The frozen rill
With treacherous snowdrifts deep and chill;
The wanderer findeth small delight
In crossing there at dead of night.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

Sadness and Joy

Sadness and Joy

    I PRAY you, Sadness, leave me soon,
    In sweet invention thou art poor!
    Thy sister, Joy can make ten songs
    While thou art making four.

    One hour with thee is sweet enough;
    But when we find the whole day gone
    And no created thing is left --
    We mourn the evil done.

    Thou art too slow to shape thy thoughts
    In stone, on canvas, or in song;
    But Joy, being full of active heat,
    Must do some deed ere long.

    Thy sighs are gentle, sweet thy tears;
    But if thou canst not help a man
    To prove in substance what he feels --
    Then givve me Joy, who can.

    Therefore sweet Sadness, leave me soon,
    Let thy bright sister, Joy, come more;
    For she can make ten lovely songs
    While thou art making four.
    W.H. Davies