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.

Nothing New,” which the American poet wrote in 1918, is published for the first time in The New Yorker’s Anniversary Issue.

And I think that there was a lot of sadness in Frost. And I think this poem is suffused with a certain amount of ruefulness, a certain amount of regret and a mixing of nostalgia with regret.

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I was delighted recently to discover that three of my favorite authors, all from extremely different backgrounds and perspectives, have written three extremely different books on aging. Yet even with ...