Dear Sarah, Mason and Cedar,
There is no medicine that can lessen your grief; and words, other than those of the masters, will always fall short. I wanted to share a poem with you and Mitch’s family that might provide some catharsis to your feelings—even though it offers little solace.
Perhaps a scene like this helped escort Mitch on his way.
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.