ypsi~dixit

What I absolutely love about this poem is the way the bottom drops out of it suddenly.

I mean this: you start with a little tiny image: a person in bed peering sleepily at the foot of the bed. In the last five words, you suddenly realize he's a traveller.

And then suddenly the traveller is Everyman, the frost is death, and the moonlight is the persistence of beauty in the world. And the absence of home is the realization that regardless of family, friends, lovers, we are all travelling alone.

That's what I get out of it, anyways.

To tie two threads together, this poem to me is like a walnut. The surface area, or, breadth, of the meat inside is much greater than the small simple surface it presents to the eye.