Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

Being in Pittsford, New York, in the snow, at Christmas time, is like being in the midst of a Robert Frost Poem. It is cold. Oh, it is so cold that your fingers ache, your body quivers and your cheeks become stiff. But if you can get past the pain of the cold, it is beautiful. The snow makes everything quiet...and still. If you are outside, sledding at night in 18 degree temperatures (isn't that when most people sled?) and you stop for a moment, close your eyes and listen, you can hear the creaking of the empty trees as they sway back and forth in the dark sky. The sound of your boots crunching the snow can be the loudest noise in the stillness of a walk during a snowfall. You can almost hear the sound of your breath hitting the freezing air as it crystallizes and lingers in front of your mouth. As the cold air threatens to cut your face with its icy claws, you find yourself nuzzling your nose into the warm fuzziness of your scarf. Your hands seek refuge into those of your beloved as you rest the whole side of your body against his, feeding off his warmth. But if you look up at the moon, and see the glow it casts upon the snow, the cold ceases, if for a moment. If you take a moment to notice the illuminated and sparkling snow blanketing the world against the backdrop of the deep blue-black darkness, it can make you lose your breath in its beauty. Your perspective shifts ever so slightly, even for a moment. The crisp, quiet air...the stillness of the night...the immensity of the snow...it all  screams of your insignificance. In the very best way possible. It brings reassurance that we are all but a small piece of the puzzle.

Whose woods these are I think I know.