Winter Storms

I love the poetry of Robert Frost. Living in New Hampshire during a portion of his adult life, much of his poetry reflects life in New England. Storm Fear is one of my favorite poems as it so perfectly describes our winter storms. Our hillside farm receives the brunt of the storm winds all winter. As we lay in bed at night, we can hear the storms coming, howling through the night. This past week has brought such storms and bitter cold subzero degree temperatures. Sleeping in layers of long johns and nightgown, the cold crept in the bedroom window leaving me chilled and frost on the panes. Several nights I found myself awakened by the wind.

One night I ventured out from under the warmth of my wool blanket into the storm while the rest of the house slept. It must have been about 2:00 in the morning and I feared that the wind and subzero wind chill would be too much for the goats Periwinkle and Fern. As we went to bed that night I debated whether or not to close the barn door as it faces the wind and catches its full fury. But the night was still and peaceful and so I left the barn door open as they enjoy being out in the evening. Waking to the full force of strong winds, I crawled out of bed and put a coat over my nightgown and headed to the barn. Fern and Periwinkle seemed confused by my presence as I stood in the barn with my flashlight but they appreciated the door being closed. Then, I headed back to bed to finish a night of sleep in the warmth of the bed covers where I waited til morning chores called me back outside.


by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)

      HEN the wind works against us in the dark,
      And pelts with snow
      The lower chamber window on the east,
      And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
      The beast,
      ‘Come out! Come out!’–
      It costs no inward struggle not to go,
      Ah, no!
      I count our strength,
      Two and a child,
      Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
      How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,–
      How drifts are piled,
      Dooryard and road ungraded,
      Till even the comforting barn grows far away,
      And my heart owns a doubt
      Whether ’tis in us to arise with day
      And save ourselves unaided.