Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could

Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well than where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture

When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.

God made a beatous
With lovely flowers strown,
But one straight, narrow
That was not overgrown

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it
And from there those that lifted eyes could

How countlessly they congregateO'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as
When wintry winds do blow
—As if with keenness for our fate,