I'm not sure if this story is true (I have no reason to believe it isn't, but I heard it well after the fact) but I think it's a nice representation of what poetry really is. Many people like to focus on "what does this mean?" or "I don't understand the hidden message"...but that's not really the point. The poem simply is. The author may have had intentions, but when complete, the poem is not just a puzzle, it's an entity all its own. Take from it what you will.
For those who have never read the poem, take a look below. It's simple, easy to read, and perhaps a bit transparent...but it holds up well in any time period.
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
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 sound’s 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.