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          The classic poem for this issue of The Fairfield Review 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.

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