Frosts Promises and Mine

I was wondering: were Frost’s promises The same as yours and mine? There had to be some point at which His obligations, duties, call them what you will, Became in his own mind solemnised, Such that their forgetting could not be. And even the creak of hooves in snow Could not lull memory aside. The woods. The night. The falling flakes. And of course the shake of harness bells. Perhaps that sound itself raised need To pen his thoughts to verse, To pause no more observing Those boughs becoming blanketed in white? Maybe that’s so. Maybe that’s so. And here I make no further promises until I’ve served the ones I know.