Poetry Makes Me Gloomy

I'm currently writing part of a paper about the following poem. Although, I want to strangle poetry in general and set it ablaze, this is the first poem that I have written about that I haven't completely hated in every aspect. Yes, I have a very gloomy outlook on summer school. No, I don't think that's going to change much. However, this poem states why perfectly. (Also, when I came downstairs this morning, Barney was singing about obligations versus fun on TV. Isn't that a great way to start your day?)

Stopping by Woods on a Snow Evening
by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.