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.
1 comment:
The bizarre of each and every life, lies in its annonymity;
Known for so long, then also astonishes with its ability!
Alacrity again holds high, overcoming its every trial;
Ambiguous may be, but still manages pace on the dial!
Its esteem may not have been ever appreciated;
May be noone ever bothered, where it was located,
But then also, one day if it disappears from there,
Subconsiously eyes will search for something atleast SIMILAR.
Never any smith feared the temperature of the forge,
Unless and untill, impacted his metal to become coarse.
For he, who knows better, that his iron has to melt,
And that too bearing the penance of pelt.
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