Robert Frost’s “Desert Places”

I walked into the bedroom toward my husband George’s dresser, on which sat ten piles of books. (Yes, George is usually reading about ten books at once.) “Is Robert Frost buried somewhere in here?” I asked, while starting to peek at the book spines one by one. “Ah, here he is!” I pulled out our hardback of Frost’s Complete Poems, its fifteenth printing (1963). I figured one of us had bought it in college or English Lit. grad school—and yup, here’s my signature on the first blank page.