Like the woods it describes, the poem is lovely but entices
us with dark depths—of interpretation, in this case. It stands alone
and beautiful, the account of a man stopping by woods on a snowy
evening, but gives us a come-hither look that begs us to load it
with a full inventory of possible meanings. We protest, we make
apologies, we point to the dangers of reading poetry in this way,
but unlike the speaker of the poem, we cannot resist.
The last two lines are the true culprits. They make a
strong claim to be the most celebrated instance of repetition in
English poetry. The first “And miles to go before I sleep” stays
within the boundaries of literalness set forth by the rest of the
poem. We may suspect, as we have up to this point, that the poem
implies more than it says outright, but we can’t insist on it; the
poem has gone by so fast, and seemed so straightforward. Then comes
the second “And miles to go before I sleep,” like a soft yet penetrating
gong; it can be neither ignored nor forgotten. The sound it makes
is “Ahhh.” And we must read the verses again and again and offer
trenchant remarks and explain the “Ahhh” in words far inferior to
the poem. For the last “miles to go” now seems like life; the last
“sleep” now seems like death.
The basic conflict in the poem, resolved in the last stanza,
is between an attraction toward the woods and the pull of responsibility
outside of the woods. What do woods represent? Something good? Something
bad? Woods are sometimes a symbol for wildness, madness, the pre-rational,
the looming irrational. But these woods do not seem particularly
wild. They are someone’s woods, someone’s in particular—the owner
lives in the village. But that owner is in the village on this,
the darkest evening of the year—so would any sensible person be.
That is where the division seems to lie, between the village (or
“society,” “civilization,” “duty,” “sensibility,” “responsibility”)
and the woods (that which is beyond the borders of the village and
all it represents). If the woods are not particularly wicked, they
still possess the seed of the irrational; and they are, at night, dark—with
all the varied connotations of darkness.
Part of what is irrational about the woods is their attraction.
They are restful, seductive, lovely, dark, and deep—like deep sleep,
like oblivion. Snow falls in downy flakes, like a blanket to lie
under and be covered by. And here is where many readers hear dark
undertones to this lyric. To rest too long while snow falls could
be to lose one’s way, to lose the path, to freeze and die. Does
this poem express a death wish, considered and then discarded? Do
the woods sing a siren’s song? To be lulled to sleep could be truly
dangerous. Is allowing oneself to be lulled akin to giving up the
struggle of prudence and self-preservation? Or does the poem merely describe
the temptation to sit and watch beauty while responsibilities are
forgotten—to succumb to a mood for a while?
The woods sit on the edge of civilization; one way or
another, they draw the speaker away from it (and its promises, its
good sense). “Society” would condemn stopping here in the dark,
in the snow—it is ill advised. The speaker ascribes society’s reproach
to the horse, which may seem, at first, a bit odd. But the horse
is a domesticated part of the civilized order of things; it is the
nearest thing to society’s agent at this place and time. And having
the horse reprove the speaker (even if only in the speaker’s imagination)
helps highlight several uniquely human features of the speaker’s
dilemma. One is the regard for beauty (often flying in the face
of practical concern or the survival instinct); another is the attraction
to danger, the unknown, the dark mystery; and the third—perhaps
related but distinct—is the possibility of the death wish, of suicide.
Not that we must return too often to that darkest interpretation
of the poem. Beauty alone is a sufficient siren; a sufficient protection
against her seduction is an unwillingness to give up on society
despite the responsibilities it imposes. The line “And miles to
go before I sleep” need not imply burden alone; perhaps the ride home
will be lovely, too. Indeed, the line could be read as referring
to Frost’s career as a poet, and at this time he had plenty of good
poems left in him.