When we were living in the States, we went on a wee roadie through New England, pitching up in Vermont to visit Robert Frost's grave. I'm not usually a cemetary groupie (I don't seek out the tombs of the famous or infamous; though I love the history of a graveyard, celebrity spotting in this manner leaves me dead - no pun intended). However, there is something about Frost's poetry that made we want to see where he was buried. It was leaf-peeping season in New England - he is buried in a quaint, quintessentially colonial graveyard on a hillside, looking down onto a tree-lined valley in Vermont. It was perfect.
|FROST VIA. HE ALWAYS SEEMED KIND OF CURMUDGEONLY TO ME (THROUGH HIS WORK), SO THIS PIC FITS THE BILL, EVEN THOUGH THE EXPRESSION IS A LITTLE SOFTER|
Anyway, more words than expected on a dead poet. And miles to go before I sleep.