In spite of his ubiquitous popularity, I will always lay claim to Robert Frost as my favorite poet. I can hear the snickering from every dark corner of the internet--especially all the Redditers. "After Apple Picking" may be one of the finest string of words ever assembled and if you disagree than I'm not sure that your soul is worth saving.
Frost's poems are an instant portal into a younger me. You know when cynicism was just difficult to spell and irony was something your Mom did for you on Sunday evenings? And speaking of Moms, one year for Christmas mine gave me a book of Frost's poetry aided by a collection of New England-subject photographs from photographer B.A. King. It's a staple of my Christmas reading collection and one of the more successful combinations of poetry + black and white photography. Titled "Versed In Country Things," it is rife with farmhouses, rural fields, and, yes, images of the woods covered in snow.
We don't get much snow here in Charleston. Almost zero snow to be exact. So these images have always been a window to another world that I'll never know. And as long as I can pick up the book and zip through that memory tunnel to Christmas long long ago, I'll never mind being versed in country things. Even if the literati will make fun of me.