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.


          DESIGN
          I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
          On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
          Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth -
          Assorted characters of death and blight
          Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
          Like the ingredients of a wiches' broth -
          A snow-drop spider, a flower like froth,
          And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
          What had that flower to do with being white,
          The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
          What brought the kindred spider to that height,
          Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
          What but design of darkness to appall? -
          If design govern in a thing so small.


          THE ROAD NOT TAKEN
          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
          To where it bent in the undergrowth;

          Then took the other, just as fair,
          And having perhaps the better claim,
          Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
          Though as for that, the passing there
          Had worn them really about the same,

          And both that morning equally lay
          In leaves no step had trodden black.
          Oh, I kept the first for another day!
          Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
          I doubted if I should ever come back.

          I shall be telling this with a sigh
          Somewhere ages and ages hence:
          Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
          I took the one less traveled by,
          And that has made all the difference.

          FIRE AND ICE
          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 say that for destruction ice
          Is also great
          And would suffice.
          ACQUAINTED WITH THE NIGHT
          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.
          I have passed by the watchman on his beat
          And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

          I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
          When far away an interrupted cry
          Came over houses from another street,

          But not to call me back or say good-by;
          And further still at an unearthly height
          One luminary clock against the sky

          Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
          I have been acquainted with the night.
          PROVIDE, PROVIDE
          The witch that came (the withered hag)
          To wash the steps with pail and rag,
          Was once the beauty Abishag,

          The picture pride of Hollywood.
          Too many fall from great and good
          For you to doubt the likelihood.

          Die early and avoid the fate.
          Or if predestined to die late,
          Make up your mind to die in state.

          Make hte whole stock exchange your own!
          If need be occupy a throne,
          Where nobody can call you crone.

          Some have relied on what they knew;
          Others on being simply true.
          What worked for them might work for you.

          No memory of having starred
          Atones for later disregard,
          Or keeps the end from being hard.

          Better to go down dignified
          With boughten friendship at your side
          Than none at all. Provide, provide!
          THE GIFT OUTRIGHT
          The land was ours before we were the land's.
          She was our land more than a hundred years
          Before we were her people. She was ours
          In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
          But we were England's, still colonials,
          Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
          Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
          Something we were withholding made us weak
          Until we found it was ourselves
          We were withholding from our land of living,
          And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
          Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
          (The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
          To the land vaguely realizing westward,
          But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
          Such as she was, such as she would become.