Robert Frost 1874-1963

Stopping by the woods

 
          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.

The World will end in Fire

        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.
        But if it had to perish twice,
        I think I know enough of hate
        To know that for destruction ice
        Is also great
        And would suffice.

The road is forlorn all day

        The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, 
          The road is forlorn all day, 
        Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, 
          And the hoof-prints vanish away. 
        The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
          Expend their bloom in vain. 
        Come over the hills and far with me, 
          And be my love in the rain. 
        
        The birds have less to say for themselves 
          In the wood-world’s torn despair
        Than now these numberless years the elves, 
          Although they are no less there: 
        All song of the woods is crushed like some 
          Wild, easily shattered rose. 
        Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
          Where the boughs rain when it blows. 
        
        There is the gale to urge behind 
          And bruit our singing down, 
        And the shallow waters aflutter with wind 
          From which to gather your gown.    
        What matter if we go clear to the west, 
          And come not through dry-shod? 
        For wilding brooch shall wet your breast 
          The rain-fresh goldenrod. 
        
        Oh, never this whelming east wind swells   
          But it seems like the sea’s return 
        To the ancient lands where it left the shells 
          Before the age of the fern; 
        And it seems like the time when after doubt 
          Our love came back amain.      
        Oh, come forth into the storm and rout 
          And be my love in the rain