Froster Me!
![Image](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ-G9Kg5d5yowyVwrpNUuB3SPsB9K0pxFuUSg_307gMpgmClK3vKAZ4e8DSGV-kj2ZJeUOb7kECuFG3u8BQXa64UUsOlub3Z0-qcsZ0EYv41Hltp1dRRZtlCiOYR4g5zyFp_gy29J9IohD/s1600/frost1.jpg)
Rote learning poetry was a pain back in high school. I did not understand why one must "compare thee to a summer's day" or how "a thing of beauty was joy forever". If only I could talk to my 13 year old self, of how much I crave a good piece of poetry today and how I seek comfort listening to online recitations of Shakespeare and Keats. How it could never beat the feel of the very first time I read it on one of those wooden benches that have witnessed classic poetry recitations, time and again. If only I could relive those moments of live poetry recitations back in class. Funny, how Life's chanced indecisions lie in those semi-precious, self embroiled spaces between "What If" and "If Only" . With all due respect to Shakespeare and Keats, their works never caught my fancy until later. But to the innocent, indecisive, simplicit observer of a school girl, unfazed by the delusions of literary grandeur, Frost came easy. I didn't hav...