2020 was Purgatory

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 … Continue reading 2020 was Purgatory