Good Hours

The classic poem for this issue of

was written by Robert Frost (

1874 - 1963). The quintessential New England poet, Frost

captures the melancholy amid the holidays, and the outside-ness of the poet --egh

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.