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's 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.
by Robert Frost
How many times have you been so beaten that you have danced on the edges of eternity? How many times have you looked into the depths of despair and thought of nothing but oblivion? How many times did you think death was sweet? Only to remember that the warm glow is the Fire and the cool blanket is the façade of the howling winds of Pandemonium. A shaykh once mentioned that this is a Gift. It keeps the Sel…