Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He'll 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.
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random poems
- Thread starter Reavr
- Start date
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- Messages
- 26
- Reaction score
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- 28
- Thread Starter
- #2
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up Like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?
- Messages
- 26
- Reaction score
- 7
- Points
- 28
- Thread Starter
- #3
Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she'd of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great. Had they but courage equal to desire? What could've made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That isn't natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?
- Messages
- 26
- Reaction score
- 7
- Points
- 28
- Thread Starter
- #5
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow-- You aren't wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand-- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep--while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?
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