Welcome back to The Daily Poem. I'm David Kern, and today's Tuesday, December 14th, 2020.

Today's poem is by an old standby, a poet who we've turned to many times, and I hope at this point you're not getting tired of him.

It's Robert Frost, perhaps the greatest of American poets, the preeminent American poet, poet legend.

He lived from 1874 to 1963, and you probably remember that he was one of, well, actually

the only poet to receive four Pulitzer Prizes for poetry.

The poem that I'm going to read today is called An Old Nand's Winter Night, and it's just

a wonderful poem for this time of year.

It was published in a collection from 1916 called Mountain Interval. and it's just a wonderful poem for this time of year.

It was published in a collection from 1916 called Mountain Interval.

This is how it goes.

An Old Man's Winter Night.

All Out of Doors looked darkly in at him through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,

that gathers on the pane in empty rooms.

What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.

What kept him from remembering what it was that brought him to that creaking room was age.

He stood with barrels around him, at a loss. And having scared the cellar under him in clomping there,

he scared it once again in clomping off, and scared the outer night, which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar of trees and crack of branches, common things, but nothing so like beating on a box.

A light he was to no one but himself, where now he sat, concerned with he knew what, a quiet light,

and then not even that.

He consigned to the moon, such as she was, so late arising, to the broken moon, as better

than the sun in any case for such a charge.

His snow upon the roof, his icicles along the wall to keep, and slept.

...