Friends, did you see the light of our today?

When we were children of the sky and grass

It filtered somewhere between leaves and play

Came from the glinted lake and snowed pass


A reflection in our speckled windows

When smile lit set sail, and was transmit

To other being, ripples and echoes

Crossed the chasm, and all was sunlit


Kindly Friendship walked us out to the field

And the glowing beams were there created

In our delighted movement was revealed

The lucid nature of our times’ ballad,


The moments flowed into infinity

‘Twas ourselves mirrored in luminosity

This a poem I wrote while in Costa Rica- during the week we spent in Peñas Blancas. Found it again today while reminiscing about my experience there which began 3 years ago to the day.


In all the landscape before my eyes

In all I saw of you my friends

In all the heart and hearts of Costa Rica

It rained euphoria today.


In our yesterday we swam the celestial rivers

But this day we came to cross.

To follow the flows of adventure

To be utterly removed in a densely wild place

To see what remained when worry and time floated away

To press our boots in the lost of the earth

And to know for certain

That of all the voyagers along leaf edge

And pollen trails and mot-mot’s wings

That of all the worlds we journeyed through

Today we lived a fantasy.


The trail was barred by fallen tree and fer de lance

But the way was paved by Peñas’ unassuming king -

Eladio, el rey de las libélulas -

Until we came upon a clearing in the path

A seeping green expanse, a blooming dream

The opening in the thick, the place where the light gets in.

We were sole visitors of a lonely place

Specks in the vault of its lush isolation.


We left it in its solitude for the journey back

And that’s precisely when my friend –

It rained euphoria today.


To beat the rising rivers, not a moment to delay

But, the smiles were pure, the arms astretched, the heads atilt

To our sky,

Our torrential tropical sky

We were soaked in Costa Rica,

Drenched in euphoria.


We made it to the river’s edge, adrenaline rushed

To cross again the liquid fury, the raging passion of unceasing life

Filled up our boots and up our souls

To the brim with the magic

Of a day so far beyond perfect,

So part of the clarity of infinite flow.

Took off our drenched shirts and seeped with Costa Rica

Each drop a memory to join all drops.



You could never wring the ‘Rica out of me.


What it trickles down to my friends –

Is that we were the paths, the rivers, and the rains

We merged in Costa Rica

Because it rained euphoria today!


My dearest and darling Sierras,

You will have to be patient with me, I fear. Oh, of course I do hear the call of your Clark’s nutcrackers calling me from the dry white-bark pined heights to hike up and have a picnic or stay a starry night or two. But for the moment I cannot be witness to your majesty. I am sorry. Let me explain. I do think of you and your high lunar plateaus very often. So, so, often. Do know, that I miss you terribly, I really do. I knew I would, but I still left. I suppose your quite puzzled, may be even hurt by that?


Mt Tyndall, Sierra Nevada

But who am I kidding? I’m the sensitive human swooning after your slopes, and you, you and your granite slabs don’t give even a quartz about how much I love you. You’ll never care, no matter how much I pine after you and how much I wish you did at times.


On the slopes of Mt. Williamson, Sierra Nevada

Of course, you don’t judge me or anyone either, and that is all the more a reason to love you.

So here I find myself scoffing you and affording myself the luxury of getting to know some others. So that I can come back to know you even better. Yes, absolutely, I promise, that’s one of the reasons. Oh, but of course, I’m not just doing it for you, it’s for my own selfish yearnings to be quenched of course. Human is what I am, remember?

But you are afraid I’ll fall in love are you not? My own vanity would wish it so…

I can desiccate from Alp back to Sierra, of that I am sure, but after that I must certainly be quenched.

After all, mountains are lovers of the rarest sort, affording one luxuries that most cannot – chief among them patience and reassurance of a geological timescale. But at the same time they can be quite fickle – the freedom they permit is at the mercy of many caprices-   like the ruthlessness of their ripping winds or the indifference of their dry creek beds. What I will never understand is how mountains can have so much character and yet care so little…

near Mt. Langley, Sierra Nevada

near Mt. Langley, Sierra Nevada

I’ve left you know, only to know that I will come back. After all if I never left, how would I know that my happiness, or rather my person within you is complete? That I truly would not rather be anywhere else?

I do not yet know much about these Alps. I do know that they are beautiful and strikingly iconic, but are they warm (in the figurative sense)? How merciless are their glaciers? And how enchanting? Can these Alps do what I fear they might? Can they become the place I want to be? No, no that would not be possible. But it is dangerous for me to tempt, no? What do you think? That sparkling crisp scenery, those abundant snows, those hauntingly well chiseled ice formations, those daintily flowered meadows, and those eccentrically sculpted peaks… and let me not forget their charming creatures- the gliding chocards, the graceful chamois, the affable marmots and the nimble bouquetin… they are captivating indeed…

chocard gliding in Swiss bliss

chocard gliding in Swiss bliss


view from Riederalp on three Swiss giants: Monte Rosa, Matterhorn, Weisshorn


hiking above Zermatt!


young bouquetin at home in his Alps

I’ve already known the pristine greens of Swiss summer heights, which admittedly I thoroughly enjoy and though you perhaps cannot match them in freshness and serenity I can’t say that they will ever be as wild and sun-seared as you.


alpine flowers above Villars, Switzerland

And it is true the Alps have too many traces of those other arrogant bipeds who also happen to be my beloved kin. Towns, huts, and villages in every vale, unavoidable. But, again, I can’t say I know them well yet, and they certainly intrigue me. I am, after all, determined to find their wilderness, wherever it may be…

view from Fenêtre d’Arpette along the Tour du Mont Blanc

Surely I can learn things from them and come back and devote myself wholly to you. With the wisdom I bring back to you we can gallivant all day, I promise. And yes, of course I’ll enjoy myself, but don’t be too jealous, okay? Oh, you couldn’t care less, I know…

The thing is, I don’t know these Alps like I know you. Would you be okay if I got to know them?

With mountains, I suppose, one can permit oneself this ambivalence…

Leaving you and yet knowing I want to stay with you forever is the most beautiful of the selfish melancholies. I do feel your pull, my dears. I suppose that is why I needed to leave, to feel the strength of your magnet. And oh what a magnet you are! My heart still surges with your river cascades! My veins flow livid with your spring melts! With your fields of lupine and shooting stars! With your swallow-tail butterflies in low meadows and your chirping pikas in high talus fields. And your clumsy bumbling bears or you sky pilots still vibrant in the highest of granite’s cracks. Even the imprint of your relentless dust on my achilles is a source of heart-ache. Oh to plunge into your glistening glacial lakes again…


lupines in Desolation Wilderness, Sierra Nevada


June ice near Bishop Pass, Sierra Nevada


shooting stars in Yosemite National Park, Sierra Nevada


swallow-tail butterfly, Sierra Nevada

May be I was fragmented when I left you, unsure of my geology. And may be I’ll never be whole, always be a split soul, but that’s okay too isn’t it? In a place where it’s okay to be split and torn and tormented because it’s just part of the landscape, it is in fact the essence of the landscape. That’s what makes you seem so feeling and so beautiful and so sympathetic. You’re a place where one can stand firm in one’s loneliness and tears and in personal gashes, no matter the slant. And in loneliness of the grandest dimensions. Where we are allowed to be maximally ourselves, stretched to bear everything of the vastness inside of us, where fragility and harshness coexist. This is where the light always comes through, where it finds new brilliance every day in firewood and shooting stars and leopard lilies.

When I come back, because I will, I will gaze admiringly into your placid surfaces. I will break into your shimmers and your gleams for a shock so profound, for having waited so long to relish in a reinvigorating depth.


Finger Lake above Big Pine, Sierra Nevada


view above Shepard pass, Sierra Nevada

I will shiver warm in your presence and let the ecstasy of your rock encased mirrors submerge me eternal. All hurt will blend and ease in your variable lights. Spring sorrows and ice cracking spectacles of joy will quiver side by side. I will wander idly and roam home without a home because in you I’m always homeward freed. I will forget everything, save the next pine tree. In your desolate meadows I will contain all my sorrows and my love, and I will find the places where I can shout naked emotions without a sound. Lost places to feel utterly found. And for all this, the blisters of life will melt away under your constellated skies. In the intimacy of your silence, you will be the refuge for all the unrequited love in the world.


along the John Muir Trail, Sierra Nevada


along the John Muir Trail, Sierra Nevada

My human arrogance hopes this letter will mean something to you. Could you not just show me a fleck, a minute speck of granitic love? How long does it take for mountains to love you back? I love you openly and unabashed. And yet, and yet… I cannot say that you do not as you have always shown me the entirety your heart…

Ever thine,

Chamois Jane

Une tête de corbeau déchirée noir sur la neige

Et tout soudain j’ai envie de la mort

J’ai envie de la guetter,

De la surprendre avec la vie restant en moi

J’ai envie de la prendre dans mes bras

Et de lui parler

Et de lui dire qu’elle est si laide, si affreuse

Mais que sans elle beaucoup ne verrai jamais la lumière

Illuminant les cristaux  fondant de neige

Tu parles du réchauffement de la terre,

Mais moi je parle du refroidissement du cœur

D’un refroidissement profond

D’un froid à gelures

À tuer toute sensibilité

La cruauté, la peine en plein soleil

En plein cristaux fondant de neige

Devant Corbeau sans son corps beau

On ressent cette absence de chaleur

Et alors on va à sa recherche

Corps vidé


Tu resteras image morbide,

Mais splendidement

Noir sur neige

Quelle chance on pourrait dire, Corbeau,

Que tu as eu de mourir dans un endroit si pure,

Si immaculé


Après tout c’est ma mortalité

Qu’il me la fait remarquer

Mais tu as souffert, ça se voit

Comme toute autre vie

Et aujourd’hui je ne sais pas si j’ai la force

De gagner contre le refroidissement

Je continuerai donc avec la souffrance



Adjective (Noun: fuppiness)

1. to be simultaneously full (of food) and happy; to feel both content and well-fed. Often occurs at meals when one is surrounded by friends and family. Is frequently followed by the onset of sleepiness.

I tend to be very fuppy during the holidays.

There was so much fuppiness at the dinner table last night that it was almost tangible (not to mention edible!).

2. to be full of happiness.

To be fuppy is to taste the zest of life.

I could not be more fuppy than when I am outside with friends under a shimmering sun exploring the grand landscapes of our beautiful earth.

Antonym: Hangry

Spelling rule
hange the end y to i when adding -er or -est: (fuppier, fuppiest).

A synthesis of the English words full and happy. From international English. Coined by international students sharing meals and adventures. A response to the term hangry.

Balsam für die Seele- Cross Country Skiing in the Vallée de Joux

I never wanted this day to end. In my mind I am still floating across the glittering snows of that enchanting landscape. Exercise, beautiful scenery, and a friend to share it all with? What could one want more out of life?

I woke up super excited before sunrise and scurried to get my things ready and have breakfast. I was so happy to see that Marcia was up and very excited too. I knew it was going to be a good day when I was already privileged to a glorious greeting from the pink streaked sunrise out my window over the distant, yet so perceptible Alps.

The metro ride only bore more good news as we saw our beloved moutons grazing in a small field outside one of the metro stops. How could a day that starts with a pink sunrise and sheep be a bad one?

There were a few hiccups in the journey, but they were few and could not possibly mar such a divine day. The first was that we were having trouble buying our ticket at the Renens train station. I got scared we would miss our train as we fumbled with card, bills, and coins, but we did not and even had time to spare.

The train ride was already superb — unfolding before us was a panorama view all the way to Mt. Blanc and Grand Combin (two of the most majestic Alpine giants). The adventure then nestled itself into the sleepy Jura mountains and to our final destination in the quaint Vallée de Joux. Switzerland  may be small geographically, but it packs an abundance of natural wonder in every nook and cranny of the country, making it a land large in riches.

the view from the train

We were headed for a village called Le Sentier at the southern end of the Lac de Joux. It was like entering an enchanted snow globe complete with a partially frozen lake, snow embraced pines and hills, fairytale Swiss homes, and yet another great Swiss accent.

where we went, (photo courtesy of

Second hiccup — when we arrived to Le Sentier the rental store seemed open, but the door was closed and no one was inside. We were perplexed. I was worried that we would have to spend time finding another place to rent skis, but we asked the people in the watchmaking store across the street who told us she had probably gone out for groceries and would be back shortly.  Sure enough, and luckily for us, she turned up right after our cross-street inquiry.

The third hiccup came when the lady told us conditions weren’t good and that we needed a car to access the trails, all of which turned out not be true at all in my opinion, but when she said that it really scared me because I had been so looking forward to cross country skiing and sharing it with Marcia and would have felt really bad if we had made the trip all the way there and could not ski.

a map of the xc ski trails, there are 220km to explore in the area! photo courtesy of

a map of the xc ski trails, there are 220km to explore in the area! (photo courtesy of

It was so fun to teach Marcia who was such an eager and fast learner. Over the years, I have a taught a few people to cross country ski and seeing the fresh joy of a first experience never gets old.

We skied the day away meandering between forest and field, between groomed trails and the traces of bygone skiers, between French and English, between a hushed landscape and our yelps of joy, all the while gliding through an ever changing delighting light.


fresh tracks!

Everything was glittering and the trees donned their finest frost. There were some wisps of fog in the valley below and some clouds above in the broad sky, and all was basking in silence of the purest sort.

One of the only people we met out in the snow that day was a friendly old man who spends much of his retired days cross country skiing (I too dream of such a retirement!). We learned a lot about his life and the area between his French and his German (even that there were wolves in this region!). We were about to start heading back, but he suggested to us a nice loop through the forest which turned out to be quite magical. When we crossed him again later he described cross country skiing to us as “Balsam für die Seele” that Marcia later explained to me is a German expression that translates to “lotion for the soul.”

I think no expression captures the essence of cross country skiing better. It is, as many outdoor activities, soothing for the soul. It is gentle and relaxing, but at the same time tires you slowly, so that by the end of the day you are left elated by your effort and exhaustion.  The kind of tired that comes through miles of silent woods and the light rhythmic woosh of skis on snow is undoubtedly one of the most satisfying.

The way back was full of delightful downhills- spurred by Marcia’s new downhill technique of crouching down so as to almost sit on one’s skis and flying along the snow surfaced earth.

We finished the day with a bit of speed-walking and running to catch the train at Le Brassus (another small village of the region) to go back to Le Sentier where we were to return the skis. But we were not so hurried that we did not notice the stream and leafless trees and snowy plain extending into the orange and yellow sparks of the waning winter light.

After returning the skis we had coffee in a cute bakery reveling in our day. Contentment at its finest. Quoi dire? C’était une journée magnifique!

Then it was back to the story book train, whistling and creaking and groaning, as we made our way back across the fuzzy boundary between fairytale and reality. Watching the lake and the glowing windows of tranquil homes in the blue light of almost night was positively magical. Vallée de Joux you have my heart!

I never want this day to end. So may it never! And instead stay ablaze in my mind and make itself cozily at home in my memory alongside all the other twinkling scenes already there. I think good experiences become little fires of memory that you can huddle your thoughts around when your soul seeks warmth.



What kind of day do you want to never end? What kind of experiences are “Balsam für die Seele” for you?

“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 miles to go before I sleep.”

– Robert Frost

Have you ever felt like Gollum when he wails “You ruins it” to Sam upon seeing Sam cook the rabbits he just caught?

Well, I felt like that earlier this year because I had to write a critical essay on Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”

Let me explain… I love the poem, but I’m not proud of the essay at all. It’s not my personal interpretation in the sense that it’s not how I have connected to the poem and interpreted it for myself (which would not be acceptable for this kind of essay). Rather it’s just the argument I found that fit best with the evidence I saw in the poem. But I in no way believe the argument I chose. It’s very much forced. On top of that, after submitting my first draft I had to remove some of the evidence that I thought was relevant to stay within the word limit. So it’s a truncated forced analysis to say the least. The essay is at the end of this post if anyone is curious.

So why the difficulty with this essay? It stems from the structure of the English critical essay.  Even though I sometimes find this form to be acceptable for responding to literature (as I did in the post beneath this one), I think it has many shortcomings and often deprives the analysis of a certain personality and richness. So writing a response to this poem in the required form was difficult for me not only because I do not like and have never liked the form that is imposed for this type of essay, but I am also very attached to this poem. It made me feel sick to over think it and to dissect it in such a ruthless manner.

For the English critical essay we are asked to present an argument regarding the piece and support it with evidence from the text. Which in and of itself does not seem so bad, but I have several problems with the required format.

1)      We are not allowed to use the first-person in presenting our argument. An argument in this sense is defined as an opinion supported by evidence. Clearly subjectivity is at play… So why are we not allowed to use the first person? The way I was taught to write these essays in high school was a way in which we had to stay away from the “personal” and format our writing to appear objective.  But why hide that it is in part subjective? If the argument stems from my opinion, why hide it in an impersonal manner? Why cover up our interpretations to make them seem objective? I’m not saying the essay should be just “I think…”s and “I believe…”s, but partially, why not? I think it’s even hypocritical to disguise it as something objective and universal- own up to your argument-it comes from you, and why is that a bad thing? There is no shame in exposing your unique human subjectivity. Additionally, I think that as art is so often related to emotion, your own reaction to a piece of art can be valid evidence in itself. Just my two cents.

2)      It’s often forced. I know this because of a particular term that I heard far too often from my classmates in high school. “Just BS-it”. BS=Bullshit. Translation: Make stuff up. Bullshitting is essentially pretending to be convinced that what you are writing has merit in order to complete the assignment. But, in reality you think something completely different or have no clue. Because more often than not we are forcing analysis where we don’t see anything to analyze. This is when the ruthless dissection of great works begins. We scrape the literary bones clean in hopes of finding any scrap that might satisfy the academic appetite. It seems sad to have to forgo our true responses even if its “I hated this poem or this book.” As long as the student is thinking critically about the language and effectively communicating reasoning for their perspective, than why not?

May be all of this stems from my desire for writing to be a creative process. Why is how it makes me feel or how it ties in with my personal experiences not valid evidence for an argument? After all, it’s the evidence I know best, shouldn’t that count for something?

The objective of the essay should be whatever you want it to be so long as you have an organized paper that presents an argument referencing the text and thinks critically about the language. As long as your thoughts are organized, I don’t see the problem with expressing your personal reaction. Or at least allowing for it to stand alongside other analysis.

Another question we can ask ourselves is: what is the use of literary analysis?  I think there are multiple. Firstly to develop writing skills- to be able to effectively communicate an argument- one that is easy to understand, concise, and supported by adequate evidence.  Easier said, than written.  After this point it gets more subjective. To understand works of literature better? That’s what one of my English teachers said when I asked her.  I’m not sure about that reason. To explore the author’s use of stylistic devices, and references, sure. I do think one use of criticizing literature is to discover what elements you like and why you like them and then use them in your own writing. But to understand? To me that implies there is only one interpretation.  Like understanding gravity.

And what about creativity? In such a rigid structure, where is the place for speculation- that uniquely human quality? At school in reports we are always asked to cite other sources (which is a good thing, don’t get me wrong)- but sometimes I think it takes away our voice! Cite your brain for once. Suggest, speculate, wonder, get lost in your thoughts a little… explore the branches of your mind alongside those of others. After all only you have the power to share the unique resource that is your own mind…

It also seems we don’t spend time enjoying the pieces of writing, rather we spend time ransacking them for every last analytical crumb we can shove into an essay. Unfortunately for me, “I like this poem because it helped me walk a lot of miles” would not have been an acceptable topic for this assignment. But, fortunately for me, I am free to write whatever I please here :)

It is, after all, one of the most dangerous and wonderful properties of art, that once shared it belongs to everyone and can be interpreted in a million ways.

Each person who experiences the art transforms it immediately. Accordingly I wanted to express my interpretation, my reaction to this piece- my way of making it mine- but not to suggest that it is the only interpretation or the author’s or anyone else’s, but merely to express and speculate for my own absorption of this piece.  And to share it and perhaps inspire discussion.

To me the poem is, as many others find it, beautiful in its simplicity and rhythm.  It’s about traveling and encouragement. About pace.  About the simple beauty of stopping and wondering during a journey. For me, it is a still and peaceful reflection whose conclusion is ambiguous, but not problematic, because it still helps you to keep going.

It helped and re-invigorated me many times in my life. First in the summer of 2010 when I was working with the California Department of Fish and Game surveying for pikas in the northern Sierra Nevada. I first starting repeating the last stanza to myself to keep myself going on long field days and try to keep up with Joseph, the guy I was working with who was a very fast walker. The poem was my companion to overcome exhaustion, to keep the rhythm and get away from the mosquitoes and on to the next survey site. But it was also a way for me to feel in touch with my experience and my surroundings, to acknowledge their pull on me. I made up a new version of the last stanza too –  inspired by the day we were rushing to finish a survey amidst the first drops of rain and distant, but approaching thunder:

The clouds are growing dark and gray

But I have pikas to survey

And not a moment to delay

And not a moment to delay

trying to follow Joseph

trying to follow Joseph

Then in the summer of 2012 I found myself in a similar situation. This time surveying for toads in Yosemite National Park. Joseph was replaced by a man named Paul, even more impressive in his speed and endurance amidst the Sierran slopes.

Where are you tadpoles?

Where are you tadpoles?

And right after Yosemite, I found its steady rhythm again on the John Muir Trail. Here it was less of a necessity, and more of a harmony for the joy that enveloped and surrounded me.  It was as if the poem had followed me there, or I had followed it, and now we flowed together.

Mather Pass on the JMT

It strengthened my belief in the beauty of not being finished, and in the beauty of consistent and continued effort.

I learned through repetition that one must keep one’s promises and earn one’s sleep (two things I really enjoy doing).

I found it yet again with the cadence of my footsteps when I started my quest for the 20 mile run and the again in my marathon training a year after.

It was for me about a state of in-between. I was caught between two worlds- that of travel and that of rest- though sometimes it seemed I was moving while at rest and resting while I moved.

Somehow I always felt I had promises to keep, but I was never able to pinpoint them all. Promise of not staying so I could go elsewhere too. The knowledge that it wasn’t time to rest yet even when I was weary. Promises of work I had to do. Promises of great expanses to cover. Promises that I sometimes wasn’t sure of. To myself? To others? But no matter, it was continuing the miles that mattered. That there will come a day without promises? But maybe I don’t want that day to come, because may be I need that driving force. A state of ambivalence, and yet a conviction that one must still keep going even if the reasons aren’t clear yet. In this sense the miles were a certainty, a firm path for me to follow, literally and figuratively. For me to move with physically and mentally. An internal drive and an external pull.

I still haven’t made full sense of it- but I don’t think I want to. It keeps me searching and stepping.





You Can Check out Anytime You Like, but You Can Never Leave:

Nature and Civilization in Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”

The arrival of the 20th century and the second industrial revolution encouraged the movement of human beings away from nature and towards villages and cities. Robert Frost’s poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” published in 1923, explores human’s modern relationship with the natural world. The speaker’s struggle between his prudence and his longing for the woods, but ultimate decision to move on, reflects humanity’s desire to, but inability to escape the pull of civilization.

Frost’s word choice and use of symbolism exemplify the speaker’s simultaneously curious and prudent attitude towards nature. The speaker distances himself from the human world and approaches the woods, demonstrating his desire for nature. He presents the woods as being away from “the village” (2) and “a farmhouse” (6). This distance can be interpreted as a metaphorical distance between society, as represented by the manufactured structures of the village and the farmhouse, and nature, symbolized by the natural setting of the woods. However, once distanced, the narrator’s desire, though still present, is mixed with caution. The speaker describes the woods as “lovely” (13), suggesting he finds the woods beautiful, but also as “dark” (13) and “deep” (13), words that are more mysterious in their connotation.  On one hand they are suggestive of the unknown and of danger, but on the other hand their placement next to “lovely” through the use of the coordinating conjunction “and” suggests that they are more benign in their connotation – and instead perhaps allude to comfort and peace. These contradictory connotations show that the speaker finds the woods inviting, but is also wary of their mystery.

This wariness is also apparent in the speaker’s position. Frost’s choice of prepositions implies that the speaker never actually enters the woods. The speaker is, as noted by the title, “Stopping by Woods” and he is positioned “between the woods and frozen lake” (7). The preposition “by” implies that the speaker is next to the woods, but not within them. This is further substantiated by the use of the preposition “between” which shows that the speaker is neither in the woods nor the lake, but rather in a place separating the two. Trapped between his desire and his vigilance, the speaker acknowledges the beauty of the woods, but remains an external observer.

Although the speaker expresses a desire to be separated from civilization, he instead decides to move on when he remembers his ties to society. Frost’s use of an oppositional conjunction demonstrates that the duties that tie the speaker to civilization take precedence over his contemplation of the woods. The speaker recognizes the wood’s allure, “but [he has] promises to keep” (14). While the speaker acknowledges that the lines preceding this statement are true (his prudence and longing for the woods included), his promises oppose this truth because they follow the conjunction “but.” Accordingly the speaker’s promises act as an obstruction to the speaker’s desire for the natural world and in doing so put an end to his deliberation. Moreover, “promises” are social contracts and the speaker’s decision to recognize them indicates his unwillingness to break away from his civilized identity. He concludes his reflection by disengaging from the woods to adhere to engagements imposed upon him by society.

Though humans can temporarily dissociate themselves from civilization to enjoy nature; they can never truly leave society, because they allow their duties to call them back. In this poem, the enchantment the speaker experiences in the woods is insufficient to keep him there because of his failure to let go of the obligations that connect him to society. This poem is a powerful statement amidst the increasingly urbanized world of the 20th century, where one can travel where one likes, but never elude the imprint of civilization.


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