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, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree. Toward heaven still, And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill. Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am
Somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which I cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though I have closed myself as fingers. You open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skillfully,
Should lanterns shine, the holy face, Caught in an octagon of unaccustomed light, Would wither up, and any boy of love. Look twice before he fell from grace. The features in their private dark. Are formed of flesh, but let the false day come. And from her lips the added pigments fall, The mummy cloths expose an ancient breast. I
They are all gone away, The House is shut and still, There is nothing more to say. Through broken walls and gray. The winds blow bleak and shrill; They are all gone away. Nor is there one today To speak them good or ill: There is nothing more to say. Why is it then we stray Around that sunken sill?