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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
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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Document last modified on: 11/11/2007